


The Lost Land

by Bonetree (Todesfuge)



Series: Goshen Universe [5]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 134,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4536918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesfuge/pseuds/Bonetree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Months after the events of "The Mercy Seat," past, present<br/>and future collide as Mulder, Scully, Skinner and Granger go cross-<br/>country and around the world in a race against time to find a serial<br/>bomber on a very personal mission. </p><p>(Final story of the Goshen Universe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

THE LOST LAND

 

"I have two daughters.

They are all I ever wanted from the earth.

Or almost all.

I also wanted one piece of ground:

One city trapped by hills. One urban river.   
An island in its element.

So I could say MINE. MY OWN.   
And mean it.....

 

At night,   
on the edge of sleep,   
I can see the shore of Dublin Bay.  
Its rocky sweep and its granite pier.

Is this, I say   
how they must have seen it,   
backing out on the mailboat at twilight,

shadows falling   
on everything they had to leave?   
And would love forever?....

 

I see myself   
on the underworld side of that water,   
the darkness coming in fast, saying   
all the names I know for a lost land:

Ireland. Absence. Daughter. --

 

Eavan Boland, excerpts from "The Lost Land"

 

************

 

EDEN, SAPPHIRE COAST   
SOUTH COAST, NEW SOUTH WALES, AUSTRALIA  
FEBRUARY 17   
5:32 a.m.

 

Late summer on the southern coast and the sun was coming up over the  
torn pink of the cloudy east, the breeze coming in off the ocean warm  
and light. The house, little more than a bungalow there on the thumb  
of sea that came into the lagoon, was full of noise -- a baby crying,  
a young boy's voice as he laughed, the banging of a screen door as a  
woman and a man moved back and forth from the house to a worn Jeep  
parked on the yard in front of the house. The woman and the man  
calling the boy's name. 

It was the sounds of family, familiar and warm as the ocean breeze.  
Their voices were as light as the tropical sun, clear as the blue  
water that lapped the sand by the small boat pier outside the house.  
A small wooden boat knocked softly on the pilings, the long blanket  
of pier planks stitched with seabirds, and the trees, pushed by a  
constant breeze off the sea, leaned as if listening to the people in  
the house and the land, their backs toward the coming light. 

*

"Come on now! You three are going to make me late!" 

Mae Porter pushed her long dark hair back, gathering it in a thick  
ponytail of curls as she leaned over the baby, who had finally  
stopped crying with the removal of the soaked diaper. Mae finished  
tying back her hair and smiled down at the baby, the little girl's  
legs kicking the air in glee as the breeze flowed in the open window,  
billowing the white of the nursery's curtains. 

"That's my girl," Mae said, deftly diapering the baby and lifting  
her up off the changing table, smoothing down the child's green  
cotton dress, straightening the straps. Mae had slathered the baby in  
sunblock, which was smeared faintly white across the little arms and  
the exposed skin of the girl's back. Reaching down, Mae lifted the  
white hat, the lip of it an uneven scallop of cotton, and laid it on  
the baby's blonde head. 

A horn honked, a playful little "shave and a haircut" cadence. 

"Coming, Joe!" Mae called through the window, hustling through the  
doorway to the hallway with the baby, the first rays of the morning  
sun laid out on the wooden floor. 

Laughter reached her again from the bedroom at the end of the  
hallway. 

"Sean," Mae said, loud enough to be heard over the television she  
heard in the boy's room. "Turn off the cartoons and come on. The  
boat's leaving in a little while and we're going to make Joe late for  
work if we don't hurry." 

The television turned off obediently and Sean exited the room  
carrying a small backpack covered with dinosaurs, his tank top too  
large and hanging off one shoulder slightly around the backpack  
strap. 

"Let's go put your things in the truck with Katherine's bag and then  
you can help me carry the cooler and snacks in," she said, putting  
her hand on the boy's head, ruffling his sandy red hair, bleached by  
the constant sun. Sean smiled up at her, and Mae smiled back. 

"You're excited, eh?" she said, pleased. Katherine fussed softly,  
reaching for her hat, and Mae righted it before the baby could knock  
the hat off. 

"Aye," Sean said shyly, his eyes shining. "I hope Joe catches  
another shark today. A great big one." 

Mae grinned even wider. "Well, these people he's taking out are  
looking for shark, he said, so that very well could be," she replied.  
"I don't know how you can stand it. It scares me to death just to  
look at the things. All those teeth." She bared her teeth in a  
facsimile of a snarl at him and provoked another chirp of laughter. 

The horn sounded again, a little longer now. 

"Mae! Let's get the show on the road!" Joe's voice carried through  
the screen door into the house, and she could hear he was as excited  
as Sean. Joe loved it when they all came along on his charters, the  
day on the boat like a vacation for them all. 

"Come on," Mae said, and she and Sean hustled out the front door  
across the yard toward the Jeep where Joe Porter stood next to the  
driver's door, smiling at them both, his skin deeply tanned, his T-  
shirt tight across his chest, his jeans faded almost white. 

He reached for the baby, and Mae handed Katherine to him. Joe held  
her up over his head as the baby let out a shrill noise in glee at  
being swooped up high. Mae looked at him warmly and shouldered the  
diaper bag into the vehicle's back seat, took Sean's bag and laid it  
on the floor beside the pink, overstuffed bag. 

"What do we have left to get?" Joe asked her, jiggling the baby from  
side to side and smiling up at her. 

"Just the food," Mae replied. "Then we'll be all set."

"You need help?" Joe asked. 

"No," Mae said, watching Katherine as he dropped her down into his  
arms, the baby squealing with the sudden movement. "Sean can help  
me." 

A gurgle and Katherine spit up, a pale rush of liquid going down the  
baby's chin and staining the dress' front. 

"Oh Joe," Mae whined. "You shouldn't be so rough with her right  
after she's eaten like that." 

Joe grimaced. "I'm sorry," he said. "You want me to go change her?" 

Mae gave him a put-upon look but a smile was still curling her lips.  
"No, just start the car and get the air conditioning up so it's not  
hot, all right? You know how fussy she gets if she's hot." 

"Not to mention how fussy *you* are when you get hot," he teased,  
and leaned in to kiss her quickly as he handed her the baby. 

"Okay, Sean," Mae said, rubbing the boy's back. "You get the cooler  
while I change Katherine's dress." 

"All right," Sean said, and the two of them made their way back to  
the house. Mae listened to the Jeep's engine start up, a cough, then  
another, then it finally turned over, rumbling from the yard. 

She made quick work of putting a fresh dress on Katherine, this one  
yellow, patterned with sunflowers. The baby's hat back in place to  
protect her pale, half-Irish skin, Mae made her way to the kitchen  
where Sean was eating a cookie from the cooler. 

"Augh, you're as bad as Joe," she said, closing the cooler and  
handing it to him. "Let's go." 

They went out the screen door, Mae closing the door behind them.  
There was no need to lock it. The nearest house was over two miles  
away, down a long dirt road that led to the main road into town. 

Music was coming through the open window of the Jeep, and Joe was  
smiling. Sean tussled the cooler, his body leaned over to the side  
with the weight and Mae put her arm around his slight shoulders, the  
baby on her hip. 

From the direction of the car, a clicking sound. A pop. 

Mae's brow creased down at the strangeness of the sound, her eyes on  
Joe, who was looking at the dash, his expression puzzled. 

Then, memory came back to her. Something buried. Long since pushed  
away.

"Oh God," she breathed, and pulled Sean against her, knocking the  
cooler from his hand as she pressed his face against her belly. 

In a split second, in the space of a breath...

"JOE!" she screamed, loud enough to break glass.

Then flame. 

The explosion roared up in a cloud of red and orange and black, the  
sound loud enough to make her ears shriek with pain as the blast wave  
knocked she and Sean down on the ground, Katherine's crying shrilling  
in surprise and terror as Mae clenched her against her body, covering  
the baby's face as glass flew over them, flaming debris raining down. 

She opened her eyes, the sound of things burning all around her, sat  
up, tears rushing to her eyes as she looked at the burning wreckage  
of the Jeep. 

She couldn't breathe, bile rising up in her throat.

In the driver's seat, through the wall of fire, she could see the  
body burning, Joe slumped over the steering wheel, still, the only  
thing moving in the vehicle the flames.

"NO!" she screamed, and the sound rushed up through her, pushing her  
to her feet, the baby sprawled on the ground beside her, choking on  
cries. 

Beside her, Sean scrambled to his feet, took a step forward and  
stopped, his small chest rising and falling, his fists clenched at  
his side. 

Mae reached for him, grabbed him roughly and spun him away from the  
sight of Joe's body burning. 

"Don't look," she said, though she was hyperventilating. The words  
came out breathy. "God, don't look..." She choked on a sob. 

Sean was tensed in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. She could feel  
his fast breath through her light shirt but he made no sound.

At her feet, Katherine screamed, the sound rising with the roar of  
the fire, the baby's small fists clenching the ground.

 

***********

 

BANGKOK GARDENS   
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA   
FEBRUARY 23   
7:34 p.m.

 

The place was warm and smelled deliciously of spice, the walls lined  
with ornate paintings flecked with gold, the light dim and candles  
illuminating the waiting area. The late dinner crowd was just  
starting to filter into the posh restaurant, the coat check area  
clogged with people in nice dresses and suits. Thai music filtered in  
from the dining area, lilting with its exotic and somehow mournful  
sounds. 

Scully stood beside the large picture window that overlooked the  
street, her belly full from the delicious meal and a sweet feeling of  
ease settling over her. 

She glanced over at Mulder, looking smart in his dark suit as he  
waited in the line with Granger to get their coats. Mulder was  
laughing over something Granger was telling him, and she loved the  
look of his face as he did it. It was a look she'd seen more and more  
of from him in the past months. She was getting used to seeing him  
smile. 

And she'd been smiling herself a lot in the past months, as well.  
She was doing it now, a small secret smile as her hand came around  
and touched the slight, firm bulge of her belly. 

She'd just started to show that week, the top button of her neatly  
fitted slacks not closing for the first time when she'd started the  
work week on Monday. Mulder had come out of the bathroom and caught  
her standing there, her fingers on the button and its hole, staring  
at the scant inch of new space between them in something akin to  
surprise. 

He'd come forward, a towel around his waist but still dripping water  
from the shower, and slid his hand down her belly between the open  
flaps of her shirt. He settled his fingers in the space between her  
pants, caressed the new firmness there. 

"You're beautiful," he'd said softly, and the tone of his voice had  
made her look up from his fingers, into his eyes. 

"Tell me that in a few more months," she'd quipped, but she'd felt a  
flush rise on her cheeks. The idea of the baby, still so new to her  
even after all these weeks, was suddenly so wondrously real. 

He'd leaned forward and kissed her then, his lips warm against hers.  
She held the kiss for a long time, her hands going to his cheeks. 

"I will," he'd whispered when they'd parted, keeping his face close  
as though afraid someone else might hear. "Believe me. I will." 

She looked up as Mulder came forward with her coat and his, looting  
around in the side pocket of his suit jacket. Granger was still  
behind him at the coat room, the next in line, and Robin returned  
from the restroom and joined him there.

Mulder finally found what he was looking for, the valet parking  
ticket, and handed the slip of paper to a young Asian man standing by  
the door. The man went out the glass doors into the street, a blast  
of winter filtering into the warm room as the door swung closed.  
Another man appeared from the side of the waiting area to take the  
other's place. 

"Here you go," Mulder said, and handed Scully her coat. She  
shouldered into the heavy wool, and he did the same, watching her. 

"You still feeling queasy?" he asked gently, standing close. 

She buttoned her coat, looked down as she did so. "I'm all right,"  
she said. "It's better than before. Eating helped." 

"Phad Kapou done extra spicy helped?" he asked, amusement in his  
voice. "We're going to have to buy this baby asbestos diapers if  
these cravings keep up." 

She laughed, looked up at him. "It wasn't a craving this time," she  
said. "It's just what I wanted for my birthday." 

"You wanted heartburn for your birthday?" he replied, his eyes  
mischievous.

"No," she replied patiently. "I wanted a delicious meal in a fancy  
restaurant." She nodded toward Granger and Robin. "And time with our  
friends. And a night out with you."

He made a soft affirmative noise and she inched closer to him, her  
eyes searching his out. 

"There's something else I want for my birthday," she murmured, loud  
enough for only him to hear. 

"Oh yeah?" he replied, matching her tone. 

"Mmm hmm," she said, nodding, her lips curling, and smoothed down  
his lapel. 

He searched her face and then chuckled softly. "Does that mean it  
was your birthday yesterday, too?" he asked, and now she did blush,  
which made him laugh again. 

"Don't make fun of me," she admonished, but she couldn't hide the  
smile on her face. 

"Oh, I'm not making fun," Mulder assured, shaking his head. He  
cupped her cheek, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. "But have I  
told you how much I love the second trimester?" 

And she laughed and touched his wrist, her eyes shining up at his.  
"You don't have to tell me," she murmured, bemused. "It shows." 

Granger and Robin came up beside them, both of them putting on their  
coats. Granger moved a little slowly, and Robin had to hold the right  
side open for him as he reached back to slide his arm in the sleeve. 

"You can do it, Grandpa," Robin teased as Granger grimaced at the  
motion. 

"Very funny," Granger replied, and she pushed the shoulder up,  
settling the coat on his body. 

"How's it feeling?" Scully asked, taking a step away from Mulder and  
looking at Granger with concern. "I noticed you were holding yourself  
a little stiffly at dinner." 

"Eh, it's all right," Granger said casually. "I just had physical  
therapy today and you know how that is. They're working on adhesions  
and it's slow going." 

The gunshot wound he'd suffered had done a lot of damage to the  
muscles in his shoulder and back and chest. Scully was frankly  
surprised he was doing as well as he was, hurt as badly as he'd been.

Granger held up a ticket for the new valet by the door, who came  
forward and took it and headed out into the cold. Scully watched him  
go, saw she and Mulder's car pull into the valet spot out in front of  
the building, the driver getting out and coming around the idylling  
vehicle, rubbing his hands together for warmth. 

Robin was looting around her purse and brought out a small wrapped  
box, festooned with a bright foil ribbon. She smiled as she held it  
up in front of Scully. 

"This," she said, "is just a little something from both of us for  
you to open when you feel like it."

Scully felt her face redden again and she looked at the box shyly,  
took it, and accepted Robin's warm embrace. 

"Thank you so much," she replied. "I'm sure I'll love it, whatever  
it is." 

They parted, and Scully squeezed Granger's good arm, returned his  
gentle smile. 

"Happy birthday, Dana," Granger said, and smiled wider. 

A couple was coming into the restaurant, and as the door opened,  
Scully heard a series of clicks, then a popping sound, like a cork  
coming off a bottle of champagne. The couple turned toward the  
street, and Scully and Mulder did, as well, Granger and Robin looking  
around them at the door. 

"What was that?" Mulder asked.

Scully's brow creased. "I don't know," she said. "But it sounded  
like it was coming from our--" 

A flash. A terrible deafening sound. 

Scully felt seering pain in her ears as the pressure in the room  
changed suddenly, her hands going up to guard her eyes against the  
light. 

Then nothing but the sound of glass shattering, the roar of fire and  
heat. Nothing but the feel of her body tumbling backward in a cloud  
of splintered wood and glass. The sound of screaming, the heaviness  
of bodies crashing against hers and the sudden feeling of impact  
against her head, her side. 

In a haze of pain, she heard someone shouting her name. 

Then she heard and felt nothing. Nothing at all. 

 

**********

 

GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL   
WASHINGTON, D.C.   
10:24 p.m.

 

"Mulder, please." 

He didn't know how long the voice had been talking to him, gentle in  
its insistence. He didn't know how long the cup of steaming liquid  
had been poised in front of him, though he could tell by the smell of  
it now that it was coffee, acrid coffee out of a vending machine,  
foamed on the top. 

He brought his eyes up from where they'd been staring at his folded  
hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked at the dark hand, followed  
the arm up to Robin's face, the warm black pools of her eyes. The  
noise of the emergency room waiting room filtered back into his  
awareness, people moving back and forth behind Robin, the room  
bustling. A voice paged a doctor over the intercom. 

To Mulder, it was like the world existed in liquid, everything  
seeming to echo and move too slowly. 

He didn't know where he'd been. 

"You with me?" Robin asked, proffering the coffee a little closer.  
There was a bandage on the side of her face in front of her ear and  
one of her eyes was slightly swollen from the area around the gash.  
The shoulder of her deep purple dress was stained dark with blood.

Mulder leaned up, took the coffee in his left hand, which was  
wrapped with gauze. 

"Yeah," he said at last. His voice cracked as if it hadn't been used  
in some time, which, in fact, it hadn't. A few words to the doctor  
who had stitched up his hand. A phone call to Skinner at the  
restaurant, Mulder shivering in the cold outside the waiting room so  
he could talk on the cell. 

He cleared his throat. The stinging of the cuts on his face came  
back to him, and he rubbed at the rough lines of dried blood,  
ignoring the pain. 

"Good," Robin said as she sized him up, her hand going to his  
shoulder. "Stay with me now." 

Mulder nodded, and Robin removed her hand. 

"Where's Granger?" he asked, looking around. 

Robin nodded toward the corner, where a knot of police stood, people  
all around them. Most of the victims of the bombing had ended up  
here, and the police were taking statements, pens and notebooks out. 

"They're going to want to talk to you, too," Robin said, regret in  
her voice. 

"I'll talk to Skinner when he gets here," Mulder said gruffly, and  
stood, placing the coffee in the chair, and took a couple of steps,  
his hands going into his pockets. He was facing the double-doors to  
the emergency room now, closed tight as a mouth. 

"She's going to be okay, Mulder," Robin said softly from behind him,  
standing close. 

He wanted to believe her, but he had nothing on which to base what  
she said. For once, he desperately needed that evidence, couldn't  
make the leap. 

He reached up and ran a hand through his hair roughly, closed his  
eyes. 

He couldn't banish the image of Scully, unconscious, in the mass of  
writhing bodies and rubble on the floor in the restaurant, a gash at  
her hairline, her face clammy and pale. 

They'd kept him out when they'd whisked her from the ambulance to  
the examining room, a nurse having to hold his shoulders to stop his  
forward motion toward the doors. 

"But...she's pregnant," he'd stammered, as if that explained the  
necessity of his going back with her. As if there was something only  
he could do. 

"Yes, the paramedics told us," the nurse had replied. "But we need  
you to just wait here for now, sir. The doctor will come get you when  
he's finished his exam. And you need to be looked at yourself." She'd  
gestured down to his hand, the make-shift bandage the paramedic had  
swathed around it in the ambulance soaked through with blood. 

She'd left him standing there, Granger and Robin coming in their own  
car to free up an ambulance for the more seriously injured. There  
were so many hurt. A dozen or more, and at least two dead that Mulder  
had seen, one of them the young man who'd gotten their car.

"Mulder," Granger said from behind him, and Mulder reluctantly  
turned from the door to face him. Granger's face was scraped up, as  
well, but he'd taken the least damage of any of them. 

"What are they saying?" Mulder asked. 

Granger shook his head. "Not much at this point," he said. "Only  
that it was a very professional job. Sophisticated device. Meant to  
do a lot of damage." 

Mulder nodded. He could feel his face reddening as emotions surged  
in him. 

Not fear, but pure rage. 

Granger must have seen it, the other man's face hardening, as well.  
"We'll get to the bottom of this," he said firmly. 

The doors behind Mulder opened and he turned instinctively, saw  
Hannah White, Scully's obstetrician, coming toward him in her usual  
long skirt and bright sweater beneath her white coat, her long gray  
hair pulled back into a loose braid. Her lined face was carefully  
neutral, a small smile forced onto her lips. 

"Hannah?" Mulder said quickly as she reached him. "When did you get  
here?" 

"I tried to find you when I came in, but you must have been back in  
the treatment area." She put a calming hand on his forearm. "I came  
as fast as my service contacted me about your call." 

"Has Scully regained consciousness yet?" He felt something in him  
unhitch at seeing her. 

"Yes, she has," Hannah said. "I'm sorry the physician who treated  
her injuries hasn't come out and told you that by now. Things are  
pretty crazy back there. If I'd known no one had spoken to you, I  
would have come out sooner myself--"

"Tell me how she is," Mulder interrupted. He felt taut as wire. 

"She's okay," Hannah replied, her voice patient, soothing. She  
squeezed his arm. "She's got a concussion and two cracked ribs, but  
she's going to be all right." 

"Thank God," Robin said from behind him.

Mulder let out a breath, nodded. "And the baby?" he asked. "The  
baby's okay then?" 

White hesitated, and Mulder felt his stomach go into free-fall. 

"I want you to be calm, Mulder," she said softly. "And not jump to  
any conclusions, okay?" 

Mulder looked at Robin and Granger, who had both gone still behind  
him, then back at Hannah, his eyes wide. "Okay," he said, hoping he  
didn't sound like he felt. "Okay. Tell me." 

Hannah met his eyes. "She's developed some spotting in the past  
hour. It's been fairly steady." 

The words hung in the air, heavy. Mulder swallowed. "What does that  
mean?" he asked. 

"Well," Hannah said, and crossed her arms. "It could mean nothing.  
Just her body's reaction to the trauma and it will stop on its own." 

"Or?" The word pushed out of him. 

The older woman's gaze bore into his, unflinching. "Or, worst-case  
scenario, she could be miscarrying." 

He shifted his weight, struggling for words. "But you can do  
something." He said it with assurance when he finally found the  
words. 

Hannah shook her head. "At 19 weeks, no," she said. "The fetus isn't  
viable at this point. It can't survive outside the womb. And we can't  
stop the process if her body decides to spontaneously abort." 

Mulder reached up and covered his mouth, rubbed at his chin to cover  
the motion. "I see," he said, and his voice was almost too quiet to  
be heard over the din of the room. 

"It's far too early to make that kind of conclusion, though," Hannah  
said. "So I don't want you to dwell on that, or let her, if you can  
help it, all right? Getting upset yourself or allowing her to is only  
going to make matters worse. And it's already difficult enough that  
she's a doctor and knows too much for her own good about the  
possibilities of things."

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said, looked down for a beat, gathering  
himself, then back up again. "Can I see her?" 

White nodded. "Yes," she said. "I want you to be with her. You need  
to help keep her as relaxed as you can. She's refusing medication  
right now, even the mild sedative the Emergency Physician wanted to  
give her, so you're going to be all she's got for the night." She  
studied his face. "Can you do that, Mulder?" 

He stood up a little straighter, nodded. He swallowed again, and it  
was like he had a stone in his throat. 

"I can do that, yes," he said, and he felt the conviction in the  
words. 

Yes. He could do that. 

He *would*. 

 

**

 

11:03 p.m.

 

When he entered the hospital room, it was dark except for the light  
over the bed, the rest of the room bathed in shadows and silence. The  
door made no sound as he pushed it closed to a crack behind him,  
shutting out the light from the hall and making the room more dim and  
the light above Scully more stark. 

She was on her side, facing him and the door, and though her eyes  
were closed, he knew she wasn't asleep. She had a fist balled in  
front of her face covering her mouth, and her brow was knitted down  
above her closed lids. He recognized that expression, the tautness of  
her face. Control. The struggle for it. 

He went to the bed and sat on the edge carefully, his uninjured hand  
going to her hair, being careful of the bandage on her forehead by  
her hairline. He tunneled his fingers through the strands, stroking  
slowly, and it took her a few seconds before she opened her eyes.  
When she did, she would not look him in the face, her eyes focussed  
on the bend of his knee. 

"Are you okay?" she asked in a faint voice, almost a whisper. 

He nodded. "Yes," he replied softly. "Some stitches in my hand and  
some bumps and bruises. That's all." 

She nodded, opened her fisted hand and touched his thigh, her  
fingers tentative as they brushed the fabric of his dress pants. 

"Paul and Robin?" she asked, and her voice trembled, her control  
sliding. He knew the tears were not far now, and cupped her head in  
his large hand, reached down and took her hand, gave it a squeeze. 

"They're all right. They went home to get Bo and take him back to  
their place for the night."

She nodded, a jerked motion. "Good," she said. "Good. We're  
all...very lucky..." Her voice cracked and she clenched down on his  
hand, her eyes closing. She still had not looked at his face. 

He leaned down, stricken, pressed his lips against her temple.  
"Scully, you don't have to do this," he whispered into her ear. "Not  
with me. Just let go..."

And with that, her breath caught and her free hand went to her side,  
holding her injured ribs. He could feel the tears against his cheek  
and turned and kissed her face. 

"Mulder..." Her voice was choked. "I can't lose this baby...I can't  
lose her..." 

"We're not going to lose her, Scully," he said softly. "It's going  
to be all right. The doctor said this could be nothing. You know it  
could be nothing." He paused. "And you've seen her, Scully. You know  
she's going to be all right."

"How do I know the baby I've seen is the one I'm carrying?" she said  
in a rush. "How do I know the things I've seen are even real, Mulder,  
and not a dream...a dream for what I wish I could have?" A sob caught  
in her throat. "Oh God...I'm so sorry..."

"Hey," he said, gently and firmly. "You've got nothing to be sorry  
for. Nothing. Don't do that to yourself, Scully. Please..."

She trembled on the bed, her hand going up to hide her face, grief  
and fear overwhelming her. Her usual fierce control over her emotions  
was not what it had been before her pregnancy, and though he welcomed  
that in many ways, right now it could be dangerous. For her and for  
the baby. 

You're going to be all she has for the night, Hannah had said. 

The thought made his gut hurt in the face of the anguish he saw  
taking her. He felt completely useless, and he *had* to be of use. 

He decided on a different tact. 

"Hey Scully," he said softly, stroking her hair. "Tell me a story."

She shook her head. "I can't..." she whispered. 

"Come on," he urged. "Tell me a story about her. Tell me what she  
looks like." 

Scully sniffed, reached up and wiped her eyes, hiding her face. "You  
know what she looks like, Mulder," she replied softly. 

"I like it when *you* tell me, though," he replied, smiling, forcing  
ease. He smoothed her hair back and inched closer on the bed. 

"Mulder..." she began, shaking her head. 

"Come on, Scully," he said again. "Tell me what she looks like and  
then tell me a story you haven't told me yet. I know you've got at  
least one you haven't told me yet." 

She sniffed again, the tears still coming. "Okay..." she said,  
trying to pull the tatters of her control around her. "Okay..." She  
drew in a breath, still holding her side. Then she began to speak. 

"She...she looks like you. When she's born...she has lots of  
hair...your color. She's very small and..." She caught on a sob  
again, covered her eyes. "I can't do this, Mulder...I can't...not  
with knowing I could--"

"Keep going, Scully," he urged. "Just keep going. 'She's very small  
and' what?"

She wiped at her eyes, the words coming haltingly. "And...she's thin  
and tall...like you."

He rubbed at her back gently. "Tell me again about her eyes." 

Scully kept her own gaze down, still staring at his knee. "She's got  
my eyes. Big and blue...so blue...deep blue...but your  
eyelashes...long..."

Her voice was unhitching now, her breath evening out. He smiled,  
nuzzled her hairline beside the bandage. "Yes," he said softly. He  
swore he could see them, Scully's beautiful eyes set into the tiny  
face like jewels. "Now tell me something else. Something you haven't  
told me yet." 

He knew she worried about telling him too much, worried about giving  
too much away about the things she'd seen about their future. Part of  
it was her distrust of her own abilities, a desire not to get his  
hopes up for things that she assumed might not be. 

But he wanted to know them all anyway. He wanted to see what she  
saw. Snapshots of a life he hadn't lived yet with her, a life he  
would live. 

Feelings rose in him with the thought, and he reached down, put his  
hand on her belly, his thumb rubbing against the small swell beneath  
the blankets. Scully put her hand over his, squeezed.

"You're lying on the floor in the living room," she murmured. 

"Our living room now? The new place?" 

She nodded. "Yes. In front of the fireplace. Bo is there. He's got  
his head on your belly. And she..." She hesitated. "And Rose...she's  
lying on her stomach across you with her ear to your chest." 

"Hmm..." Mulder smiled. "How old is she?" 

"Three or four," she replied, and a tiny smile touched her lips,  
though the tears were still coming. "She's got long long hair. A dark  
french braid down her back. You're twirling it in your hand.  
You're..." She swallowed.

He rubbed her belly again. "I'm what?"

"You're...teaching her how to count," she whispered. "She's trying  
to count your heartbeats." 

His eyes burned. Something bloomed in his chest and he could feel  
the small weight there. 

Scully turned to look at him now, her eyes shining in the light. 

He leaned down and kissed her lips softly once, twice. Then he  
withdrew just enough to be able to meet her gaze. 

"Scully, you have to believe," he murmured. "No matter what's  
happening now, you have to believe in what you see." He pressed his  
palm against her belly. "Because Rose is already here. With us. Right  
beneath our hands." 

She lay her hand on the side of his face, searching his eyes, nodded. 

"I love you," she said on a breath, kissed him again, lingering  
there, her words and the kiss passed between them like secrets. 

 

**********

 

7912 LAUREL STREET   
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA   
FEBRUARY 24   
7:21 p.m.

 

It had begun to snow, the sky a heavy cobalt darkness, the huge  
flakes coming down around Mulder as he gathered firewood from the  
holder in the townhouse's tiny backyard, stacking the pieces in the  
crook of his elbow. The night was quiet, and he looked up at the  
windows of the house, which glowed a warm gold. From the bedroom on  
the second floor there was a tiny trickle of dancing light, the  
fireplace in the bedroom lit but waning. Seeing this, he went back  
into the house, his shoulders and hair dotted with snow. 

Through the living room with its own fire burning more brightly than  
the one upstairs, past his black leather couch, its shoulders covered  
with a Navajo blanket, he made his way up the staircase almost  
silently. He passed the second bedroom, the room that would be the  
baby's, still empty except for a few boxes left over from the move.  
The office was across from it, his computer screen glowing faintly  
with Flying Toasters, Scully's laptop closed on her neat desk against  
the far wall, circled with papers and files. 

Down the hallway, his socked feet making no sound on the hardwood  
floor, he finally entered he and Scully's large bedroom, light  
flickering from the hearth. Scully was facing away from him, a bump  
beneath the covers, her breathing deep and even. 

Bo lifted his coal-dark head from the foot of the bed, his eyes  
catching the firelight as he watched Mulder pull back the screen and  
place more wood on the fire. Mulder fumbled the logs around carefully  
until fresh flames peeked between the wood, and then, satisfied,  
replaced the screen, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

He turned then and went for the bed, reaching out and stroking Bo's  
soft head as he rounded the foot. Then he stood next to Scully, saw  
her face smoothed out with sleep, her eyes shifting beneath her  
closed lids as she dreamed. He smiled faintly. 

Then the memory of the explosion came back to him, the screaming in  
the restaurant, the high-pitched sound of glass as it shattered. The  
scrambling over bodies to find her in the chaos that followed. 

The smile melted away. 

He pulled the covers up over her shoulder, his fingers playing on  
the hair trailing out along the pillow, then withdrew from the  
bedroom, Bo coming down off the bed and falling in slowly behind him  
as he went back down the stairs. 

He was in the kitchen making a pot of decaf, Bo leaned against his  
leg, when the doorbell rang. He flicked the coffeemaker on and went  
to answer it. 

There, outside on the front steps, Skinner stood, a bunch of flowers  
in his hand and a stiff expression on his face. 

"Mulder," he said gruffly. Snow tapped on his shoulders. 

"Sir," Mulder replied, stepping aside and gesturing for Skinner to  
enter, which he did. 

"Are those for me?" Mulder quipped, nodding toward the flowers as  
Skinner shouldered out of his jacket, revealing casual clothes  
beneath. Jeans. A dark sweater. It was to be only a partial business  
meeting.

"No, you I got one of those smiley-faced silver balloons but it flew  
away between here and the car," Skinner replied through his teeth.  
"These are for your *wife*." He stuck the flowers out toward Mulder  
without ceremony. 

Mulder laughed, both at his joke and at his purposefully heavy use  
of Scully's married title. "Thank you," he said. "You want coffee?" 

"Leaded or unleaded?" 

"Decaf," Mulder replied.

"Sure then," Skinner said, and followed him into the kitchen, where  
Bo still sat in front of the coffeemaker, a bone in his mouth. The  
dog whined softly on seeing Skinner, and Mulder touched his head as  
he lay the flowers on the counter. He went for the cabinet beside the  
sink, drew out two mugs. 

"Where's Scully?" Skinner asked. "Sleeping, I hope?" 

"Yeah," Mulder said. He poured from the half-full carafe. "She's  
been asleep most of the day since we got home." 

"How's she doing?" Skinner took the mug Mulder offered. 

"She's okay," Mulder said. "Bad headache from the concussion, and I  
think it makes her sore to move around too much with those ribs, but  
she's all right." He picked up his own mug, took a sip. 

Skinner looked down into the coffee, hesitated. "And the baby?" he  
said finally, barely loud enough to hear. 

Mulder nearly choked on his drink, but held his reaction in check.  
He lowered the mug, felt his face flush. 

"So that's out now, I see," he said. 

"Not to everyone, I don't think," Skinner replied. "But yes, some of  
us know. The people who need to know." 

Mulder took another sip of his coffee. "So much for privacy in the  
workplace," he said, and he couldn't keep the irritation from his  
voice. 

"You want privacy in the workplace, go work for Dunkin' Donuts,"  
Skinner replied, echoing the irritation. "I wish you'd told me a long  
time ago."

"Not my call," Mulder said, not meeting his boss' intense gaze.

"I figured as much." Skinner went for the refrigerator and the milk.  
"You didn't answer my question." 

"The baby's okay," Mulder said softly. "We had a bit of a scare, but  
they did an ultrasound this morning and everything looks all right.  
Normal." 

"Thank God for that," Skinner said, pouring milk and replacing it,  
closing the door. 

"Yeah," Mulder said faintly, uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.  
"What have you found out so far about the bomb?" 

Skinner turned to him now, his hip against the counter. "A  
professional job. The folks in Ballistics have been all over it,  
collecting evidence. Whoever did this had a lot of money and a lot of  
practice. No one's claimed responsibility for it, either. Not a peep  
from the usual suspects." He looked down at Bo, then up again. "We're  
thinking it's personal."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah," he said. "It sure felt like it." 

"You know what Granger's doing, right?" 

"Checking cases from my VCU days, looking for anyone who could have  
the means." 

Skinner nodded. "Can you think of anyone off the top of your head?" 

Mulder shook his head, said nothing. 

"I thought of something else," Skinner ventured. "I'm sure you've  
thought of it, too." 

Mulder nodded. "Curran."

"Yes," Skinner said. "I've checked with Counterterrorism and there  
aren't any Path left, though. And he didn't leave a lot of friends by  
the time he was done. As far as the IRA goes, you and Scully did them  
a favor by putting down a rabid dog who was biting them on the ass.  
That was the general vibe when all that was over, I'm told. So that  
doesn't make sense either." 

Mulder put his mug down, leaned on the counter himself. "None of it  
makes any sense. Why us? And why now?" Frustration leaked into his  
voice, the thin edge of the anger.

"That's what Granger's looking into all that stuff from VCU for,"  
Skinner said. "To see if anyone you put away has recently gotten  
loose again. We're not coming up with much at this point, though. But  
we'll keep looking." 

Mulder looked down. "Thank you, sir," he said, relenting. 

Skinner drained his mug. "In the meantime, cabs for both of you," he  
said, stood up straight. "I gotta get going. I just wanted to check  
in." He nodded to the flowers, looking uncomfortable again. "And  
bring those by and see how things were." 

"I appreciate all you're doing," Mulder said, and meant it. 

Skinner waved him off. "We'll catch this guy," he grunted.

Mulder set his mug down and led Skinner through the living room to  
the door, where the AD put on his jacket again, zipped it against the  
coming cold. 

"Give her my best when she wakes up," Skinner said. "When are you  
coming back in?" 

Mulder considered. "Her doctor wants her out for a week. Me...give  
me a couple of days to make sure she's all right. Then I'll be back." 

Skinner nodded. "Yeah, take a couple. And be careful, Mulder." 

"I will," Mulder replied. 

Skinner opened the door and went out into the night. 

Mulder closed the heavy wooden door behind him, stood still for a  
long moment, just listening to the house. A log fell in the fire with  
a hiss, and Mulder watched the sparks wink out. 

A whine and he looked down at Bo, standing there with that worried  
look he got when things were out of sorts, his eyes darting. 

"It's all right," he said, gave the dog's bone a playful tug. Bo  
wouldn't give it up, as usual, just stared, and Mulder chuffed  
softly. 

Sighing, he went around to the couch, grabbed the remote and flicked  
on the television, sinking into the familiar leather and putting his  
feet up on the coffee table, flipping channels idylly. 

Bo ducked under his legs and went into a heap, dropped the bone and  
lay his chin on the floor, his eyes closing.

Mulder let the sound of the television drift over him, felt his  
muscles beginning to unknot a bit, thinking. 

He'd stayed up most of the night with Scully, neither of them able  
to sleep as the bleeding had continued. Around four, it had begun to  
slow, and by six it had all but stopped, just in time for Hannah to  
return to perform the ultrasound. 

Everything looked fine, White had said, a smile on her face, and  
when she'd asked if they wanted to know the sex and Scully had  
nodded, Hannah had confirmed that the baby was indeed a girl. 

He closed his eyes.

Rose's head on his chest. Scully's eyes. His hand playing in his  
daughter's long hair, hair the color of his...

He smiled, a wide easy smile. 

Things were going to be all right, he told himself. Things would be  
just fine...

The doorbell rang again.

Mulder turned to face it, then looked toward the kitchen, wondering  
what Skinner could have left behind.

Probably forgot to tell him something, he thought. That was all. 

He rose, stepping over the dog, and went to the door, opened it with  
a joke on the tip of his tongue about Skinner getting old and senile. 

Then he froze, his eyes going wide.

Mae Curran stood there in the falling snow, a baby bundled in a  
blanket against her shoulder. Her other arm was around Sean Curran's  
thin chest, the boy shivering in a lightweight jacket, his eyes huge  
and filled with some emotion Mulder couldn't name but which he did  
not ever want to feel. 

Mulder's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He couldn't find words.  
Emotion rose up in him, filling him. 

Anger. Anger borne of fear. 

Mae looked at him, her lip trembling. He could see a tear track down  
her cheek in the porchlight, catching on a deep slice in her face  
that was swollen and scabbed. 

"Mulder," she said softly. "Please let us in."

He didn't move, his hand tightening on the door. 

"Mulder," Mae implored again, pulling Sean and the baby closer to  
her. Her voice broke. "I'm begging you. Please...let us in."

 

***

"Mulder, let them in." 

Scully said it so softly behind him that he barely registered that  
she'd spoken, a ghost of her voice. 

He turned to face her there in the small entrance hallway. She was  
wearing his robe, the deep green of it swallowing her in soft terry  
cloth, her hair pushed behind her ears, her hand on her ribs. The  
bandage was stark on her forehead, and her eyes were serious beneath  
it, deeply sad and more than a little afraid. 

He turned back to Mae in the doorway. She made no move to come  
forward despite what Scully had said, seeming to wait for his  
permission to enter the house. She looked at him, unblinking, and  
there was a strength beneath the desperation in her eyes. Something  
quiet beneath the tears. 

A cough and the baby began to cry on her shoulder, a miserable sound. 

Hearing it, he stepped aside and let the three enter the house.

"You must be freezing," Scully said as he closed the door behind  
them. "Go on into the living room." She nodded behind her. "There's a  
fire."

It was true that they must be cold, he noted. None of them seemed  
dressed for the weather, Mae's long curled hair covered with snow. 

"Thank you, Dana," Mae said, angling Sean that way, the baby  
fussing, wriggling against her. 

Mulder looked at Scully there in the hallway, and he let what he was  
feeling show on his face. She reached out and touched his arm. 

"It's okay," she murmured, Mae well out of earshot now. 

"HOW could this be OKAY?" he hissed. 

"Mulder," she replied softly, gave his arm a squeeze. "She wouldn't  
be here if she had a choice." 

He began to say something else, but Scully shook her head, moved  
around him and went into the living room, moving slowly. He  
hesitated, then finally followed. 

Mae had settled onto the couch with the baby, Sean beside her,  
sitting with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes drawn to the  
television in the dim room. Mae was peeling out of her jacket and  
unbuttoning her shirt, the baby full-throated wailing now. 

Bo got up from where he'd been lying at the sound and the sight of  
strangers, his ears flat against his head in distress, and skulked up  
the stairs, his tail between his legs. Mulder watched him go and  
understood the sentiment completely. 

"Do you want something?" Scully asked, taking a chair beside the  
couch. "I think I smell coffee." 

"No, thank you," Mae said, and she exposed her breast for an instant  
as she guided the baby to it, the crying stopping abruptly as the  
baby latched on and began to nurse. Mae covered the child's head with  
the blanket, rubbing softly. "Sean might like something, though. Some  
cocoa or the like if you've got it." 

Mulder was still standing, his hands in his pockets, in front of the  
fire, looking at them all warily. He wanted to say something, but  
he'd be damned if he could figure out the right thing to say in this  
circumstance. 

"Do you want some cocoa, Sean?" Scully asked, looking at the boy.  
"Or some milk?" 

Sean stared back at her, his eyes like glass, his mouth closed. 

"Why don't you go wash up before you have something, Sean?" Mae said  
into the beat of silence. She turned to Scully. "Bathroom?"

Scully nodded toward short hallway to the kitchen. "Just down there.  
On the right." 

"Go on," Mae said, touching the back of Sean's head, and the boy  
obediently rose and went the way Scully had indicated. They all  
watched him go.

Once the door closed down the hallway, Mae looked at them,  
swallowed, and spoke. 

"He...He's not much for talking these days," she said. "Not since..." 

Scully leaned back and he could see her face fall. 

"Joe," she said. 

Mae nodded, smoothing the baby's hair gently, looking down into the  
child's face. "Yes," she whispered, and a tear rushed down her face. 

Mulder's face dropped, as well. "A bomb," he said. 

Mae looked at him. "Yes," she said again, and seemed surprised at  
his words. 

Mulder raked a hand through his hair. "Shit...." he breathed. 

"I'm so sorry," Scully said, emotion heavy in her voice. "Were you  
hurt? Besides your face? You or Sean or...it's Katherine, right?" 

Mae nodded, looking down at the little girl again. "Just some cuts  
and scorching here and there...but Sean...he hasn't spoken since."

"Probably shock," Mulder said.

Mae wiped at another tear on her face, dabbing around the gash. "He  
won't even talk to me," she said softly. "I don't know what to do." 

The bathroom door opened and Sean came back into the room, retaking  
his seat beside Mae, quiet as a tomb. He looked at Scully and Mulder  
in turn, his mouth a thin line. 

Scully stood slowly, still holding her side, went to the couch and  
knelt in front of him, reached for his hands, feeling them. She  
checked his eyes, her hand running over his head gently. 

"Can you talk to me, Sean?" Scully asked softly. "Tell me how you're  
feeling? If you're okay?"

Sean simply looked at her, his face blank. 

No tears. No nothing. No one was home. 

"It happened...right in front of him." Mae seemed to have a hard  
time speaking about it herself. "Right in front of all of us." 

"He seems okay physically," Scully said, finishing her cursory exam.  
"A little dehydrated." 

"We've been travelling a long time," Mae said. "Days to get here  
from Australia. I'm not surprised if we're all a bit worse for wear." 

Scully turned to Mulder now. "I think we have some hot chocolate in  
the pantry," she said, and he nodded, moved off to the kitchen,  
relieved to be doing something. 

He pulled the milk from the fridge, poured it into a mug and set it  
in the microwave, his mind racing as the milk heated, the machine  
humming. 

Two bombs.

No coincidences.

The past, with its cold hand, reached out and touched the back of  
his neck, straightening his spine as the microwave beeped. 

"Fuck..." he said under his breath, and pulled the mug out, going  
for the counter and the pantry, the box of Nestle's on the top shelf. 

"...so I followed you home yesterday from work," Mae was saying as  
he re-entered the living room. Scully had retaken her seat, the thick  
robe curled around her. 

He went to Sean, offered the hot chocolate out toward the boy, who  
looked at it, then at Mulder with those same vacant eyes. Mulder  
reached down and lifted the small hand, set it around the handle.

"Drink," he urged gently, and like throwing a switch, Sean put the  
cup to his mouth and took a sip. Mulder wondered vaguely if Sean  
might have burned his mouth. 

He put the remote control in front of Sean on the coffee table. "You  
watch what you want, okay?" he said to the boy, and then he nodded to  
Scully and Mae, gesturing toward the kitchen. 

"Let's talk in there," he said, and both women rose, Scully moving  
slowly, and followed him down the short hallway to the eat-in area  
off to the side of the counters. Both of them sank into the chairs  
around the table, Katherine still nursing steadily, undisturbed, as  
Mulder leaned against the counter in the dim room, the only light the  
bulb above the range. 

"How long have you been in the States?" Scully asked.

"Two days here in D.C.," Mae replied. "I was going to come here last  
night, but you went out again so quickly. I waited until late for you  
to come back, but with the baby and Sean...I went back to the motel  
off the highway and waited until tonight."

"We were at the hospital all night," Mulder said, an edge in his  
voice.

Mae looked at Scully, touched her forehead in the same place where  
Scully's bandage sat.

"That?" she asked. "And Mulder's face and hand?"

Scully nodded. "Yes," she said, looked down toward her belly  
unconsciously. "And...other concerns. I was in for observation after  
we were in...an accident." 

Mae's face grew more grim. "You were in that restaurant, weren't  
you? The one I saw on the news this morning. The car bomb." 

"Yes," Scully replied, nodding. 

The baby fussed, her head turning from side to side, and Mae pulled  
her up, closing her shirt and leaning Katherine on her shoulder in  
one deft movement, rubbing at the baby's back. Mae was quiet, looking  
down at the baby blonde head as though afraid to meet he and Scully's  
faces. 

Mulder's hands went to his hips, his temper flaring at her silence. 

"What is it you want from us, Mae?" he asked, his voice quiet in  
deference to Sean in the nearby room, but his tone sharp. 

Mae met his eyes, and they glinted, even in the dim light. "It's not  
a question of what *I* want anymore, is it?" she said, nodded to  
Scully then returned her gaze to his hard stare. "It's a question of  
what we both *need.*" 

"We can't protect you," Scully interjected, sounding more tired than  
anything else. "Not without exposing you." 

Mae looked at the baby. "I don't care about exposure," she said.  
"I'm not here for myself. I'm here for Sean and for Katherine." She  
paused, her voice lowering. "Nothing matters to me anymore but what's  
left of my family. They're my home now. I want them safe." 

She met Mulder's eyes again. He hadn't moved. 

"And you need me," she said softly. "You need what I know." 

"We can do this without you," Mulder said. "We have the resources of  
the FBI, Counterterrorism--"

"Yes, and look how well they've dealt with the IRA and the Path in  
the past," Mae replied, hard. "The IRA has been here for *years*  
right beneath your noses and you've done nothing to stop them. You  
haven't even noticed most of the time, and when you did, you didn't  
care enough -- until your glorious hand in the *peace* -- to lift a  
bloody finger to stop it. Jesus, if your government knew what has  
been done from your own cities--" 

"I'm not going to argue politics with you, Mae," Mulder said, waving  
her off with his bandaged hand. "I don't give a damn about your  
politics. All I care about is *my* family." 

"Then you'd better bloody well give a damn about my politics," Mae  
shot back. "Because that's what this is about."

"No, it's not," Mulder replied hotly. "This is personal." 

"Our politics *is* personal," Mae replied quietly. "That's the thing  
you people have never understood." She looked at Scully. "Until now,  
it seems." 

Scully looked back. "Who is doing this?" she asked, and Mulder saw  
her cup her belly, as though protecting herself, their child. 

Mae looked down. "I don't know," she said, just above a whisper. 

"You don't *know*?" Mulder repeated. "You tell us we need you and  
you don't have any idea who it could be?" 

Mae's eyes flashed up at him again. "I know it's someone connected  
to the Path, but it's someone I don't know. Someone connected to Owen  
somehow..." 

"How do you know that?" Scully asked quietly. 

Mae looked down. "Because everyone I know from the Path is dead. And  
the IRA wouldn't come after me. They wouldn't blame me for what Owen  
did, not after I..."

"After you betrayed him," Mulder finished. He didn't care if it hurt. 

"Yes," Mae whispered. 

Katherine had gone still against her shoulder, and Mae rubbed at her  
back. Mulder couldn't tell for whose comfort the action was done --  
the baby's or Mae's. 

Suddenly, Scully covered her mouth, rising as quickly as her ribs  
would allow and coming around the table. 

"Excuse me..." she said, and went for the bathroom off the kitchen,  
closing the door behind her and leaving Mulder and Mae with her baby  
alone. 

The sounds of coughing reached them, intermittent, choked. 

"Is she all right?" Mae asked, looking toward the door and then back  
at him. 

Mulder's gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw working. "She's  
pregnant." 

"Oh God," Mae said. "And last night--"

"She's okay," Mulder interjected. He didn't want Mae's concern. Not  
Mae's. "They're both okay. We got lucky." 

"Yes," Mae said softly. "I'm so sorry. This should be a happy time  
for you. Not...this." 

He looked up her, sitting there with her eyes on the bathroom door  
with the sleeping baby in her arms... 

And he blamed her. 

He couldn't help it. From the moment she'd come into their lives,  
Scully had been in danger. He would always associate her with that  
danger. With everything he stood to lose. 

He leaned up from the counter, shook his head. 

Scully wouldn't want him to feel that way, he told himself. Mae had  
saved Scully's life, had been Scully's friend. The two women had a  
bond that Mulder didn't understand but couldn't deny. 

And, thinking of the kind man he'd met in the house in Show Low,  
this man Joe Porter, he realized that Mae had been punished enough  
for her past, paid her penance for her sins. 

He wanted to believe that. But not for Mae's sake exactly.

For her children's sake, so vulnerable in the crossfire of this. 

And for Scully's sake. It was what she would want from him.

The toilet flushed and Scully emerged, pale, holding her side even  
more tightly now, moving even more slowly. 

"I'm sorry," she began. "But I need to lie down."

"You okay?" Mulder asked gently, taking a step toward her  
instinctively. 

"Yeah," Scully said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm just...sore.  
Tired." She turned to Mae. "We have a futon in the office and the  
couch for Sean. Stay here tonight. We'll call people in the morning.  
The house has been swept for devices before we came home today. We'll  
be safe for the night."

Mulder didn't like it, but he kept quiet, and when Scully looked at  
him, he nodded. 

"Let's get you upstairs," he said softly, and Scully nodded,  
resigned. 

So he left Mae in the kitchen with Katherine, moved past Sean --  
still as a statue with the remote still lying in front of him -- and  
followed Scully slowly up the stairs to begin settling them all in  
for the night. 

 

************

FEBRUARY 25   
7:32 a.m.

 

The house was warm, so warm there was vapor clouding the corners of  
the windows like cobwebs in the kitchen, light flakes of snow falling  
outside in the gray morning as Scully looked into the woods behind  
the tiny fenced backyard. Snow was clinging to the trunks of the  
trees, the world washed in white. 

Mae sat at the kitchen table, Katherine sitting on the flat surface  
as Mae held her hands to steady her, talking softly to the baby, who  
was smiling, her blue eyes dancing, her downy hair mussed with sleep.  
Sean was in front of the television, the bright, strange sounds of  
cartoons filtering into the kitchen over the sound of bacon sizzling,  
Mulder at the stove in his faded jeans and a black T-shirt and bare  
feet, every burner holding a pan full of something cooking, his hands  
moving over the stovetop, turning things. 

Bo leaned against Mulder's leg, looking at Scully uncertainly. He  
whined softly as she looked at him, and Mulder reached into the paper-  
towel covered plate in the center of the burners and broke off a  
corner of cooled bacon and fed it to the dog.

She went to Mulder, stood next to him, and took the two pieces of  
toast that popped from the silver toaster beside the stove, began to  
butter them. 

"Don't do that," he said. "I've got everything under control. I wish  
you'd go back to bed."

She finished buttering the two pieces, set them on the stack with  
the others on the cornflower-colored plate. "I'm fine, Mulder," she  
said. "Really. I feel okay."

And she was mostly telling the truth. More than her physical health,  
she felt an anticipation this morning, having woken to the feel of  
the baby moving inside her, a fluttering in her belly, as though she  
were suddenly filled with tiny wings. 

It made her smile when she'd awakened, and she'd taken Mulder's  
hand, already pressed against her from where his arm was draped  
across her in his sleep. Holding it against her abdomen, she'd wished  
he could feel it, too, as he'd drawn in a breath behind her. 

"Somebody get up early?" he'd said, his voice heavy and soft with  
sleep. The sun was just coming in through the windows. 

"Yes," she'd whispered, smiled, and he rubbed his fingers against  
her, pressed a kiss to her temple. 

The doorbell rang, breaking her out of the memory, and, her hand  
trailing on his back, she went around him, through the living room to  
the front door, opening it. 

Maggie Scully stood there, a bag of groceries in one arm and pack of  
diapers in the other, her expression clearly quizzical and concerned. 

"Good morning, Mom," she said, leaned forward and kissed her mother  
as the older woman entered the house. 

"I have to tell you," her mother said, handing the bag of diapers  
off to Scully. "That is one of the oddest phone calls I've ever  
gotten from you. Six o'clock in the morning and you call with 'Come  
as soon as you can with milk and fruit roll-ups, and bring diapers  
for a 23-pound baby'?" 

Scully chuckled. "I imagine that wasn't the best way to wake up,  
no," she said, and took her mother's coat as she shed it. "I'm sorry,  
Mom." 

Maggie smiled, though her eyes were still filled with concern. "It's  
okay. You know I was coming anyway, jetlagged or not." 

Scully smiled. "Yes," she said. "I know I couldn't keep you away for  
long." 

Maggie smoothed her hair down around the bandage. "Of course not,"  
she replied.

Her mother had been in San Diego until yesterday afternoon, visiting  
her brother Bill. Hearing of the accident from Mulder yesterday  
morning, she'd taken the first plane back she could find. 

Scully had asked Mulder to wait and call her until they knew about  
the baby, wanting that to be just between the two of them until they  
knew something for certain. The thought of sharing that grief too  
soon had been too much for her, even though it was her mother. 

Maggie looked into the living room, her brow creasing down at the  
sight of Sean on the couch. "Who's here?" she asked. 

Now Scully grew serious. "Someone who might be able to help find  
some answers to what happened," she said. "I don't want you to get  
upset..."

"Why would I be upset about someone helping you get to the bottom of  
what happened?" her mother asked incredulously. 

"Because it's Mae Curran," Scully said quietly. 

Her mother blanched, her mouth falling open. "That Irish woman?" she  
whispered. 

"Yes," Scully said.

"You've got a terrorist in your house??" her mother hissed. "My God,  
Dana--"

"It's all right," Scully hurried to interrupt. "AD Skinner has  
already been notified that she's here. She's turning herself in,  
because someone tried to kill her, too."

Maggie shook her head. "Dana, I know she saved your life, and I'm  
forever in her debt for that, but having her here can't be a good  
thing."

"Mom," Scully said tiredly. "This might be the *only* good thing  
that can happen right now. If someone's trying to kill her, as well,  
then it's someone associated with her family, with the Irish Cause,  
that's doing this. And she's our link to that." 

"But isn't having her here like going fishing in a barrel?" her  
mother asked, her voice exasperated, but still just above a whisper.

"Mom, I can't argue with you about this," Scully said, putting a  
hand on her mother's arm. "I don't have the energy to do it. Mae can  
help us. I feel certain of that. But regardless of that, in the end  
all I know is that someone who has been my friend is in danger, and  
she's got two children with her who rely on her. That's all I care  
about right now. I'm asking you to understand that." 

Her mother drew in a breath, relenting. "All right," she said at  
last. "I'll respect what you want, even if I don't like it."

Scully nodded. "Thank you, Mom," she said softly, and ushered her  
mother into the living room. 

"Sean?" Scully called, rooting around in the bag her mother still  
held. "Mae said you liked these?" 

Sean turned to look at her, the same blank look on his face. Scully  
smiled at him, drew out the fruit roll-ups, a whole box of mixed  
flavors, and handed them to him. He took them automatically, but made  
no move to open the box. 

"Hi there," Maggie said, smiling broadly. Sean said nothing, simply  
turned back to the television, and Scully motioned to the kitchen,  
her mother following along. 

"Is he all right?" Maggie whispered as they went down the hallway. 

"No," was all Scully said as they entered the kitchen, and then they  
were standing in front of Mae and Katherine, Mae looking up at Maggie  
with interest. 

"Mae," Scully said. "This is my mother, Maggie Scully. Mom, this is  
Mae Curran."

"Porter," Mae corrected gently, and reached her hand toward Scully's  
mother. "I'm very pleased to meet you." 

Maggie put the bag down and shook Mae's hand, smiling politely.  
"It's good to meet you, as well," she said. "After everything you've  
done for Dana." 

"I was happy to do it," Mae said, and Maggie's smile became a  
fraction warmer. 

Maggie turned to Mulder, still at the stove, turning eggs.

"Good morning, Fox," she said, and Scully heard the warmth come back  
into her voice. 

"Maggie," Mulder replied, waving a spatula and licking the finger  
he'd just burned as he'd fumbled bacon. "The road's okay?"

Maggie nodded, reached down and touched Katherine's hand that was  
reaching toward her. "Yes, they're fine. Everything's plowed and  
salted." 

"Good," Mulder replied. "We've got more people coming."

"Mr. Skinner?" Maggie replied.

"Yes," Scully said, sinking into a chair. "And Paul Granger is on  
his way." 

"Let me help you with breakfast then," Maggie said, and moved toward  
the stove just as the doorbell rang again. Scully went to get it,  
relieved to see that Sean had dug into the box she'd given him,  
though he still paid her no mind as she moved through the room. 

Outside the door, Skinner was there, flanked by two men she'd seen  
before but whose names she did not know. Paul Granger was coming up  
the walk behind him, the snow still falling. Skinner was in his suit  
and trench, looking all business. His face matched his outfit. 

"Agent Scully," he said. "How are you?" 

"I'm all right, sir," she said, her brow creasing as she looked at  
the two men with Skinner. Granger's face was grim as he stopped  
behind them all. 

Skinner nodded to the men beside him. "This is Frank Music, John  
Kucinski. They're both from Counterterrorism." 

"But sir, I--" She shook her head.

"Let us in, Scully," Skinner said softly, and Scully didn't realize  
until then that she'd been blocking the door. 

She looked at the grim set of his face and swallowed, nodded. 

So this was how this was going to go, she thought. 

By the numbers.

She stepped aside and let them into the house. 

"Hey," Granger said softly as he followed them in, smiling down at  
her. "You don't look so worse for wear." 

Her lips curled. "And you're lying," she replied, and Granger smiled  
wider. 

She and Granger followed the men into the kitchen, watched with  
dismay as Mae's face fell from the smile she'd been giving her  
daughter, toddling on the floor beside her. Mulder and her mother's  
faces almost sad as the procession came in. 

"Mae Curran?" Skinner asked, standing in front of Mae. His voice was  
soft, but clearly official. 

"It's Porter," Mae corrected again. "But yes." 

"My name is Walter Skinner. I'm an Assistant Director with the FBI."  
He introduced the other two men, who were looking down at Mae, their  
gazes hard, their postures guarded, as though Mae were herself a bomb  
that might go off at any second. 

Skinner glanced at the baby, and regret was on his face. Scully  
looked at Mae, the same emotion in her eyes. 

God, she hated this. Hated it so much. 

"It's all right," Mae said as if reading her thoughts, and picked up  
Katherine, hugged her close. The baby whimpered, fussing. Mae looked  
at Skinner, strength in her eyes. "Go on." 

Skinner took in a breath, let it out. "Ms. Porter, you're under  
arrest for Conspiracy charges stemming from the bombing of the Irish  
Embassy in Washington D.C. You have the right to remain silent..." 

Mae looked at him, hugged her daughter closer, and Scully was struck  
by how small she looked, wreathed by the men, the kitchen heavy with  
silence except for the sound of the baby's beginning cries and  
Skinner's formal, quiet voice. 

 

****

"....Do you understand the rights as they have been presented to  
you, Ms. Porter?" 

Skinner looked at Mae expectantly, the other two men still staring  
down at her. Frank Music slipped his hands in his pockets beneath his  
coat. 

Scully watched Mae's face, the same determined set of it, but  
something had fallen in it now a touch, and her expression was  
colored with something else. 

Relief? 

Katherine was pushing off her mother now, clearly wanting to get  
down as she cried, and Mae reluctantly set her down on the floor and  
watched her walk away, toward the stove and Mulder and Scully's  
mother. 

"Do you understand the rights?" Skinner said again, tight in the jaw. 

"Yes," Mae responded now, looking up at him and nodding. "I  
understand." 

Skinner nodded back, a slight bob of his head. "Good," he said, and  
it sounded almost dismissive. 

Scully knew she still had the look of protest on her face, and she  
started to say something -- something about how they couldn't  
separate Mae from her baby or Sean, about how Mae wasn't a danger to  
anyone, about how Mae was, herself, the one who needed Skinner's  
help, not this -- when Skinner pinned her with his eyes and raised a  
finger, not at Mae as she expected, but at Mulder. The gesture threw  
her, silenced her as her mouth began to open to voice everything  
she'd been thinking. 

"Now," Skinner said. "Should I be afraid that he's cooking?" 

This threw her even more. She looked with surprise at Skinner, at  
the incongruity of his treatment of Mae and that statement, one of  
his usual busts of Mulder's chops. 

"Yes..." Scully stammered. "But he does all right, though--"

"Good," Skinner grunted again, and started peeling off his coat, the  
other two men doing the same now. "Then someone make me a plate." 

And he pulled out a chair across from Mae, threw his coat over the  
back of it and sat, leaning on his elbows, the other men clamoring  
into chairs, as well. 

Mae turned and looked at Scully in surprise, and Scully looked back,  
then at Mulder, who was standing agape as Maggie reached around him  
to stir the eggs, which had begun to smoke faintly. 

"Sir, I think--" Scully began, tentative, looking at her boss. 

"There's nothing to think about, Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted.  
"I've been in a meeting with Deputy Director Rosen this morning, and  
we've come to a consensus on how to proceed." 

He turned to Mae now. 

"Ms. Porter, the charges against you are serious ones, but the  
Deputy Director and I have also taken into account your past behavior  
in protecting the life of a Federal Agent -- at risk to yourself --  
and...other circumstances that seem to mitigate that you are no  
longer as severe a threat as you may seem in your record." 

"No," Mae said softly, regaining her own composure. "No, I am not a  
threat to you." 

Skinner nodded. "That doesn't dismiss these charges, and I want you  
to understand that. But given recent events and the urgency of the  
current situation, I've been instructed to attempt to make a deal  
with you for your cooperation in our investigation." 

Scully exhaled, relieved. Skinner's attitude at the door was  
urgency, yes, but not to get at Mae to arrest her. Not to take her  
away. The urgency was about her and Mulder, about solving the  
bombing, and Skinner and Rosen has apparently come to the conclusion,  
as she had, that Mae was the way to do that. 

Thank God, she thought, watching her mother reach for a piece of  
toast on the plate beside the stove and hand it down into Katherine's  
reaching hands to distract the toddler from grabbing onto Bo. 

Skinner knew about Mae killing Fagan to save Scully's life. He knew  
about Mae's taking her and hiding her until Mulder could get to her,  
helpless as she'd been then. Those were the "other circumstances"  
Skinner referred to. 

He did not know, however, that Mae had helped save Mulder's life in  
the canyon in Show Low when Owen Curran had been killed. Skinner  
didn't know she'd been there at all, or that Scully had herself let  
Mae and Joe and Sean go free. 

And, Scully thought with even more relief, Mae was savvy enough not  
to reveal any of that. 

As was Granger, who had helped her prepare the Bronco for Mae's  
escape, participated in the cover. He was still standing there,  
silent behind her.

"All right, Mr. Skinner," Mae said, sitting up a bit straighter as  
though she'd just been dealt a complicated hand of cards. "What is it  
you're after from me exactly?" 

Scully moved forward as the three men stared at Mae, went to where  
her mother was pouring cups of coffee from the brimming pot, and took  
them, bringing them to the table for the newcomers. Kucinski and  
Music took their cups -- Music with a friendly smile -- and Scully's  
mother moved in behind Scully with the cup for Skinner. 

Scully retook her place by the door beside Granger. Her ribs were  
aching already and it wasn't even 9:00. 

"I think you know what we want," Skinner said, eyeing Mae. 

"Aye, I do," Mae said softly. "But what I know is very dear to me,  
even if I have turned my back on it. It's about my family and my  
history and the life I knew. It won't come cheaply." 

"You need our protection, Ms. Porter," Skinner said, and Scully  
could see he was losing his patience now. 

"You need what I know more," Mae responded evenly. She'd looked at  
her hand of cards, clearly, and seen a lot of cards with faces.  
Scully knew because she saw them, too. 

"What is it you want?" Skinner said, his teeth together, though he  
tried to look easy as he sipped at the coffee. Scully knew him well  
enough to know he was anything but at ease. 

Mae made her bet. "I want immunity from prosecution for the bombing  
and protection from your government for both me and the children." 

Skinner lowered his mug. "Anything else with that, Ms. Porter?" he  
said tightly, rolling the coffee around in the mug. "A cup of coffee?  
Some milk? I bet you we could even get Mulder over there to bake you  
some nice muffins or something..." 

"Very funny, sir," Mulder said sourly from the stove and Kucinski  
and Music smirked.

"I'm not joking," Mae said with a bit more force, and Scully could  
see the hard set of the visible side of her face. "What I know is  
worth that much. And if you two men are from Counterterrorism and  
know much of my history, you know that's the truth."

"We know how highly placed you were, yes," Music said. "We know what  
you *could* tell us." 

"All right then," Mae said, sat back. 

Call, Scully thought. She looked at Skinner, who was searching Mae's  
face as though trying to measure either how serious she was or how  
much to believe her. He glanced at Scully, and she gave a slight nod. 

Yes, she said with her eyes. You can trust her. 

She wanted him to believe that. Because she believed it herself. 

Skinner's eyes were drawn to Katherine again as the baby wobbled  
over, a bitten-into piece of toast in her hand. The baby went to her  
mother and reached up to be picked up now, and Mae did, balancing the  
little girl on her lap. Katherine looked at Skinner, pulled off a  
crust of her bread and offered it up to her mother's face. 

"Obstruction of justice, which is a much lesser charge. Federal  
protection for you and the children." 

"I will not," Mae said clearly, "be separated from my baby or my  
nephew." 

"Arrangements would be made around that," Skinner said, his eyes on  
Mae intensely, like any good poker player looking for a bluff. He  
wasn't finding one and Scully knew it. "I can promise you that.  
That's as low as I can go." 

Mae looked at Scully, and the two women's gazes hung. This time  
Scully was relaying her trust for Skinner in her eyes. She nodded. It  
was about as low as Skinner and Rosen could go given Mae's history,  
and she knew that. 

A rustling behind her, and Sean pushed into the room, all the  
adults' eyes going to the motion. 

Mae looked at him, at Skinner, and Scully knew what was going  
through the other woman's mind. Time to lay it all down. For the  
children's sake if for nothing else. For Sean, who had been through  
so much -- too much -- already. 

"Agreed," Mae said, still looking at Sean, and reached a hand out  
toward the boy. 

He wouldn't come, and Scully put a hand gently on his head, smoothed  
down his sleep-dented hair. 

"Everything's okay, Sean," she said softly. "Go back in and watch  
television and we'll bring you a plate. You must be hungry."

Sean looked up at her with his wide, wet eyes, and then turned and  
left the room. 

Maggie was making up plates now and came forward, putting one in  
front of Skinner, another in front of Mae. Mae reached for the eggs  
and picked up a tiny piece, put it in Katherine's mouth and the baby  
obediently chewed. 

"Where are you going to take us?" she asked Skinner. "To protect us?" 

Skinner took the fork off his plate, looked down. He looked slightly  
flustered, his face reddening. "The four of you are going to a place  
close by," he said, took a bite. 

"The 'four' of us?" Mae asked, feeding the baby again and taking up  
her fork, taking a bite of her breakfast herself. 

"Yes," Skinner said. "The three of you and..." He looked at Scully.  
"And you, too, Agent Scully." 

Scully's mouth came open, and Granger moved further into the kitchen  
as if he meant to get away from her. Scully knew from the movement  
that he'd known this was coming, and she stared at his back, then at  
Mulder, who had flicked off the burners with a snap.

"Wait a minute," Mulder said as Maggie pulled a plate away and went  
by Scully toward the living room and Sean. Her mother looked  
relieved, and it made Scully even angrier, her face flushing. 

"This is coming from Rosen," Skinner hurried to interrupt. "He wants  
you put away, Scully." 

"I am part of this investigation," Scully said indignantly. "I will  
not be sequestered away while it is going on. I'm an agent in the  
FBI, not--"

"I won't have us separated," Mulder jumped in. "We can protect her  
better by having her--"

"It's coming from *Rosen,*" Skinner said, louder this time, each  
word enunciated. He looked at Scully, looking uncomfortable again.  
"The Deputy Director and I feel that your...condition warrants this  
added precaution." 

Scully felt her face flush even more, and she drew herself up to her  
full height. It didn't seem nearly tall enough suddenly. "I hope,  
sir, that you and the Deputy Director are referring to my injuries  
when you use that word." 

Her voice was soft. Dangerously so. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Scully," Skinner said. 

Music and Kucinski didn't look surprised at all, both men studying  
the whorls on the table. Scully burned, this time with embarrassment  
she couldn't stave.

"She's not going into Protective Custody without me there--" Mulder  
began, blustering. Bo shot out of the room as he spoke. 

"You told the Deputy Director that I'm pregnant?" Scully spat. There  
was no use pussy-footing around it, she decided, Kucinski and Music's  
heads still coming up, surprised to hear it spoken so frankly.  
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that was *never* anyone's business--"

"Scully, he's the one who told *me,*" Skinner said sharply, his  
volume rising to her tone and her words. 

"How did he know? How did he find out?" Scully bit the words out,  
her eyes flaring. 

"You filed an insurance claim for an obstetrician," Skinner said  
quickly. "That's all it takes at the FBI." 

That silenced her for a moment, and Mulder, too, who put his hands  
on his hips, looking down and letting out a hard breath. Granger had  
moved to stand beside him, and Granger was looking at Scully, his  
expression sympathetic but resigned. 

"Look, the Protective Custody isn't open for discussion," Skinner  
continued. "Mulder, you're going to be working on the case with me,  
Granger and some of the other profiling people, and the  
Counterterrorism Unit. Scully, you're going under. That's it. Those  
are orders. We're keeping you close to home so that you can see your  
doctors and so we can get to Ms. Porter easily for information. But  
that's all there is to it. I'm sorry."

Mulder turned and picked up a pan, heading for the sink, and it made  
a loud metal-on metal sound as he dropped it too hard into the sink. 

She understood his ire, though she knew he was not angry for the  
same reasons she was. For her, it was the being coddled. For him, it  
was the separation, the need to protect her himself, and though she  
loved him for the sentiment, it stuck in her craw, as well. 

They weren't done with this, she decided. But she would let it go  
for now. 

Skinner pushed his plate away, barely touched, as though the food  
suddenly turned his stomach, as though Scully and Mulder's ire had  
suddenly contaminated it. He reached for his coffee. 

"Tunes," he said to Frank Music. "Why don't you start the  
conversation with Ms. Porter?" 

Scully felt nausea beginning to swim in her stomach, and she pushed  
it savagely down, despite the sweat coming onto her face. 

She would not be sick in front of these men. 

"Ms. Porter," Music began, "We're aware, as we've said, of how you  
were highly placed in The Path's organizational structure and--"

"It was family," Mae corrected quietly. "Pure and simple." 

"Yes," Music said awkwardly. "Well. Now, if you could give us some  
idea of who might be remaining in that hierarchy, we could begin to--"

"There aren't any left," Mae said. "No Path. Not that I know of. But  
I don't think that matters. This is bigger than The Path. This is  
someone better connected than that, someone connected to the Cause  
somehow. Or bigger than that even. That's the only way they could  
have found me Australia. With my husband. I'd changed my name and  
everything."

"Can you give us some idea of where we might begin to look then?"  
Kucinski said, finally speaking. Even when he spoke, it seemed as  
though he didn't want to, his keen dark eyes peering out from beneath  
thick brows. 

Mae thought for a moment, feeding Katherine another blot of egg. "I  
think you should begin with what's left of the old IRA. Many of them  
are here in the States. Inactive, but still well-connected." 

"We need names," Skinner said.

Mae seemed to struggle with herself, not wanting to be that  
specific. It would, Scully realized, be taking a big leap. Her turn  
would be complete with involvement of even one other person. 

"There's a man in New York," Mae said softly. "His name is Conail  
Rutherford. He's done work for the Campaign before."

"The Campaign for Free Ireland?" Music said. "Malcolm Flaherty's  
organization, when he was alive?" 

"Yes," Mae replied, nodding. "He might be a good person to begin  
with because he was sort of a go-between. Between the IRA in Ireland -  
\- the Old Guard -- and people here in the States. He knew a lot of  
people. He might know someone who's left." She looked at the men.  
"He's not a terrorist, though. He was never active that way. Just  
a...go-between. Good at keeping lines open, if you take my meaning.  
His family knew my family." 

She seemed lost in thought for a beat. "His family knew everyone's  
family," she added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back up  
from where she'd been looking into Katherine's face. 

"Start there," she said. "I'll have to think more about who else you  
could talk to." 

"All right," Skinner said, and drained his cup, standing and  
reaching for his coat. Music and Kucinski did the same. "We'll get on  
that. The safehouse is still being arranged. We need a few hours.  
It'll give you some time." He glanced at Scully. "I'm leaving Ms.  
Porter in your custody until we send a car for you all." 

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir," Scully said evenly, and  
she saw Skinner wince as he pulled the coat on. 

"Thank you for breakfast," he mumbled, and he made his way out of  
the kitchen with the two men, who she heard let themselves out, the  
door closing behind them. 

Quiet fell over the kitchen except for the baby, who was talking, in  
single words, to her mother, picking at the plate, making a mess. 

Scully looked at Mulder across the room, his fury still boiling off  
him. 

Granger spoke into the quiet. "I knew that was coming from the phone  
call with Skinner this morning after he met with Rosen. I tried. I  
really did. I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault," Scully said, the nausea still rocking her,  
worse now. Her whole body ached, and she already felt exhausted. 

"She will be safer," Mae interjected. "We all will be. These people  
have long arms and they know what they're doing better than almost  
anyone in the world. It's best to lay as low as possible." 

"I don't mind the hiding as much as I can't stand the reason,"  
Scully said softly, feeling too ill to sound too angry. "A woman gets  
pregnant and the men all gather around like a bunch of brooding hens.  
I don't think my own father would be this patriarchal, and that's  
saying something." 

"Yes," Mae said softly. "I think that would anger me, as well."

Scully sighed. The mention of her father had made her think of her  
mother, who had withdrawn in the middle of things. She appreciated  
that. The experience had been difficult enough without having to go  
through it in front of her mother. 

It also made her think of Sean. 

"Paul," she said. "I hate to ask you to put on your psychologist hat  
but..."

"What is it?" Granger asked, looking concerned. 

"Could you go in and talk to Sean in the living room? Spend some  
time with him. Do an assessment of some kind if you can." 

Granger's background was far more clinical than Mulder's. He could  
do it with more ease, and he wasn't personally connected, as Mulder  
was to Sean. Perhaps Sean would talk to him. 

"Sure," Granger said, and he painfully came out of his coat, laying  
it on the back of one of the chairs the men had vacated. "I'll be out  
in a while." And he moved out of the kitchen, past her to the living  
room. 

Again the quiet reigned for a few seconds. 

"Hey, I made you a plate," Mulder said, forcing his voice into  
composure, but anger still tinged it. Frustration. "I'll warm it up  
in the microwave for you, okay?" 

She looked at him, rubbing a knot of a headache that had started  
between her eyes. 

He did not say that he wanted her to eat. And for that, she was  
thankful. Even if she knew the thought was implicit in his offer. 

She felt like she had a hundred hands on her, guiding her this way  
and that. It made her feel even more tired. 

She relented, though. She would not get upset with Mulder. She  
pushed it away as best she could. 

"Okay," she said, and sat down next to Mae and Katherine to eat. 

 

**************

 

JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT   
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK   
9:52 a.m.

 

The International Terminal was teeming with faces from all  
countries, all walks of life. Whole families of Americans, standing  
out by their boisterousness and their bright clothes. People in  
turbans, their white clothes looking like dresses, with the no  
nonsense shoes of travelers. Businessmen in casual clothes but who  
did not look at rest as they hefted laptop carriers and heavy  
briefcases through to their gates. All of them ready to board planes -  
\- huge ones, white and silver -- to carry them away from America and  
to places that many of them called home. 

The young man walked among them, his smallish backpack over his  
shoulder. He wore a thick wool sweater, white, and faded jeans with a  
hole at the pocket. He looked a bit like a college student, though he  
was a few years too old for that. But he still carried that look  
about him, a veneer of youth, which was accentuated by his pale face  
and his light red hair, cut close in a military style, a leftover  
from a recent life. His eyes were light -- sky blue, but lighter. The  
color of ice.

He wore headphones that curled behind his head, the sounds of the  
airport drowned out by the rich sounds of a band that did not sing in  
English. The man understood every word, humming to himself, the  
Discman in his free hand. 

He moved to the side of the bustle of people, checking his bulky  
watch as he did so. 

Almost 10:00 a.m. Time to make the call. 

There were payphones lined up against the wall in the distance, and  
he went towards them, drawing out his wallet as he pushed the  
headphones off around his neck. A receiver in his hand, he pulled out  
the pre-paid phonecard, checked the dialing instructions once again,  
and punched in the international number and all the codes, waiting to  
be cleared. With a series of clicks, the phone began to ring. 

It was picked up on the first ring. 

"Yes." 

It was an old voice that answered. A woman's voice. Thin and  
delicate as paper. 

"It's me," the young man said, his voice soft and deeply tinged with  
accent. "Flight's leaving in an hour, so I'm calling in."

"Yes," the woman said again. "You've checked your bags then?"

The young man shifted against the half-booth, not liking the sound  
of that. 

"Aye," he said. "That I have. Just now."

A pause. "You'll need to go retrieve them, Christie." 

He was surprised she used his name. He looked around to see if  
anyone was paying him any mind, and no one was.

"A problem then?" he said, keeping his voice soft. 

"Yes," the woman said. "All sorts of problems, I expect."

He paused, considering. The news disappointed him, but he was not  
exactly surprised. 

"Aye, well, I'll go get the bags then." He tried to sound reassuring  
when he said it, as though he didn't mind the trouble. "Be right back  
on it." 

He forced a smile, as if the old woman could see it. It's what he'd  
do if he stood in front of her, and it came from habit.

"There's a flight back to Washington in an hour and a half. On  
United. Go purchase a ticket and call me when you get in. We'll find  
a nice place for you to stay in the meantime."

"All right then," he said. "I'll be in touch."

"Travel safely," she said, as she always did, and she hung up the  
phone. 

He set down the receiver, slid the phonecard back into his wallet  
and the wallet into his worn jeans pocket. Then he moved the  
headphones back into place, the music still playing. 

It reminded him of home -- the fiddles, the guitars, the hollow  
sounds of hand drums. The voices singing in their rich harmonies.

He moved back through the crowd toward the check-in area. He knew  
that -- for the time being, least -- the music was as close to home  
as he was going to get. 

 

************

 

7912 LAUREL STREET   
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA   
11:31 a.m.

 

Paul Granger sat in front of the television, his eyes bleary behind  
his glasses as he alternately watched the cartoons streaming on the  
television and the boy beside him, who had a box of crayons from his  
backpack spread all over the coffee table and was coloring on a piece  
of paper Granger had retrieved from Mulder's printer upstairs. 

He was relieved to see Sean working on his picture. It had taken  
quite a bit of work to get him to do it. 

Granger had had to sit there for a long time and draw and color  
several pictures himself before he'd even gotten Sean to look at what  
he was doing. He had drawn a picture of himself first, over-  
accentuating his nearly bald head and his small glasses in an attempt  
to make Sean laugh, which he'd failed miserably at doing. Then he'd  
drawn Bo, a simple picture of the dog lying in front the couch. 

His apartment building. His car. Still nothing from the boy, Sean's  
eyes on the television. 

Finally, beginning to feel slightly foolish, he'd drawn a picture of  
Robin, which (if he did say so himself) was a decent likeness of her,  
with her lovely braids and her rich dark eyes he'd colored in with a  
brown crayon. He'd bore down slightly harder to make the eyes deeper  
in her already-brown face.

It was this picture that had finally gotten young Sean's attention,  
the boy turning his head from time to time to check Granger's  
progress. 

"You like this picture?" Granger had said when Sean had first  
started to glance the picture's way. 

Sean said nothing, simply met Granger's eyes. 

"This is Robin," Granger said. "Robin Brock. She works at the FBI,  
too." 

Sean blinked up at him, seeming to be listening, and Granger  
continued, despite the fact that he felt like he was yammering. 

"She looks at DNA on pieces of evidence all day. I don't know how  
she can stand it, but she's really good at it. One of the best  
there." 

He'd gone back to coloring the picture as Sean returned his gaze to  
it. 

Then Sean had done something he hadn't done in all the time Granger  
had been sitting with him. 

He reached across Granger's body, touched his left sleeve, and took  
the fabric of his shirt between his small fingers, drawing Granger's  
arm up. Then his hand ran to Granger's hand, which he turned over,  
palm up. 

Granger let him do this, confused, but encouraged at the boy wanting  
to touch him at all. 

Then Sean had run a finger over Granger's ring finger on that hand,  
and quickly withdrawn his hand when he'd found nothing there. 

"Ohh...." Granger had said, understanding. "No, we're not married,"  
and then he'd flashed Sean a smile. "Yet." 

He winked, but Sean did nothing. 

Sean then reached onto the coffee table and picked up the picture of  
Granger, looking at the caricature for a long moment. 

"Why don't you draw me a picture of yourself?" Granger'd said then.  
"You can make it look any way you want to, even funny like mine if  
you want. Any way you like." He pulled up a piece of paper off the  
stack and put it on a book on pathology he'd pulled from the  
bookcase, its cover bare. 

"Go on," he'd said. "Give it a try." 

And Sean had reached for the book and paper and a pencil and  
actually started to do it, turning slightly to hide the page from  
Granger's eyes.

Granger had been thrilled at the progress. He'd been trying to get  
Sean to talk for over an hour, with barely a look in response. This  
was something, at least. A start. 

Granger sighed as Scooby Doo ran, legs akimbo, across the television  
screen, a man in a giant voodoo mask running behind he and Shaggy. He  
yawned and tried to ignore the nagging pain in his chest and  
shoulder, always there since the shooting in West Virginia. It made  
him feel old, much older than his almost 35 years. 

Behind him, Scully moved up from the basement, followed by her  
mother. They were carrying some clothes from the laundry room  
downstairs, and Scully wasn't moving any better than he'd seen her so  
far. 

"I wish you'd just lie down and let me and Mulder do this for you,"  
her mother was saying as they moved through the room toward the  
stairs. "You can tell us what you need and--"

"Mom," Scully said, her voice firm but tired. "I'm fine. Please..."

And then they moved up the stairs and out of earshot again, their  
voices faint in the hallway going toward the back of the house.

Sean turned slightly now, set an orange crayon down on the table,  
brushing at his picture to get the eraser dust off of it, stroking at  
the image. 

"Can I see?" Granger said softly, returning his attention to Sean.  
There was a large scrape on Sean's forearm, and Granger touched him  
lightly just below it. Sean pulled his arm slightly away, looking up  
into Granger's face. He still hid the picture on his other side. 

"Please?" Granger asked. "I showed you mine. It doesn't have to be  
good or anything. Don't worry about that. I just want to see what you  
did. Sort of like trading pictures." He smiled kindly. 

Still Sean didn't move. 

"Here," Granger said, reaching for his self-portrait and holding it  
on his lap. "We'll put them on our laps and look at them side by  
side." 

And with that, Sean slowly brought his picture up and held it  
between his hands beside Granger's.

And Granger had to compose his face.

For starters, it was clear that Sean had considerable artistic  
talent for his age. The image was clear, well drawn, and the colors  
were vivid and blended naturally from hue to hue.

Despite what the picture showed.

A figure. Arms outstretched, legs spread wide, like he was falling  
down the center of the page. Every one of the limbs a different size.  
A grotesquely large foot. One hand as tiny as the other was huge.  
Reddish hair like Sean's, but the figure without clothes and  
genderless. In the face, huge gaping eyes, but no nose or mouth, the  
eyes misshapen, one seeming to drip down the face as though it had  
melted. 

And all around the body, encasing it --

Flames. Perfectly drawn, angry flames filling every inch of white  
space on the page, licking out from the strange body in the center.

Sean, at his silence, began to draw the picture away.

"No, no," Granger said hurried, touching the picture. "It's a really  
good picture, Sean. I like it. You're a very good artist."

Sean held still now at his words, looking down at the picture. 

"You're very upset, I know," Granger said gently. "I can see from  
your picture how upset you are. But things are going to get better  
now. You're safe here." 

Sean looked up at him now, and Granger saw the beginnings of tears,  
tears he knew wouldn't really come. 

And then Sean shook his head. 

Granger swallowed. "You're going to be okay, Sean," he tried again.  
"Really."

But Sean only shook his head again, and put the picture away. 

 

******

THE BLUE AND THE GREY MOTEL AND EFFICIENCIES   
FREDRICKSBURG, VIRGINIA  
FEBRUARY 27 (TWO DAYS LATER)   
7:23 a.m.

 

Two beakers on a battered countertop beside an ancient Amana stove.  
A television, its picture dulled around the edges, reruns of "Hogan's  
Heroes" playing into the room for background noise, canned laughter  
filling the room. The bed, unslept in, was neatly made with its cheap  
comforter, the Bible taken out of the nightstand drawer and open to  
the gospel of John. Beside it, Airborne Express boxes cut open with a  
sharp knife, mounds of styrofoam and packing peanuts.

"That sure is a lot of boxes," the manager had said cheerfully when  
the young man had gone to the desk to pick them up. 

"Yes, it's all from eBay," he'd replied, smiling, his American  
accent perfect, even a hint of drawl in it to put the manager at  
ease. "I love getting in them auctions and picking up things here and  
there to turn around and sell myself." 

"That your business here in Fredricksburg?" the manager asked, and  
the young man smiled amiably. The man wasn't suspicious -- merely  
being friendly. The nosiness of the South.

"Yeah, I'm selling some things at the flea market off exit 39," he  
replied. "It's a living."

"Everybody's got to make their way, that's so," the manager said,  
bored now. "Good luck to you, Mr. Price," he added, and took his  
leave to the room in the back. 

Now he set the bottles in front of him. 

Sulfuric acid.

Nitric acid.

Toluene. 

Distilled water. 

He'd prepared an ice bath, had his syringe and the best Celsius  
thermometer money could buy. A small digital scale stood on the  
counter beside him and he began his measurements, careful percentages  
done by weight. 

It would take about five hours, as it always did, a series of  
heating and cooling, of drawing off liquid that floated to the top,  
of rinsing and waiting. But in the end, he would have what he needed. 

He glanced at the timing device he'd built from a digital wristwatch  
at his own hotel the night before. It sprang wires like a colored  
spider, the display flashing, waiting to be set, then triggered by  
the electronic impulses of an automobile. 

Christie made the first solution, emptied an exact amount into a  
beaker and placed it in the ice bath. He added the toluene, began to  
stir, fighting off the chill in the room, his sweater's sleeves  
pushed up to his elbows so he could work. 

He glanced at the television as he stirred. The men on the screen  
all lit their cigarettes against the night sky lined up in the shape  
of an arrow, pointing an aircraft to the target nearby. 

The audience laughed and Hogan looked at the screen, sharing the  
joke with a sly smile, a gleam in his eyes. 

 

***********

 

PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE   
WASHINGTON, D.C.   
FEBRUARY 28   
9:20 a.m.

 

Mulder wished, for one of the few times in his life, that he smoked. 

He had the image in his head of him riding shotgun in the Bureau  
sedan, the window cracked, and him chain-smoking his way down  
Pennsylvania Avenue. He'd seen enough people do it that it always  
seemed a soothing ritual, a way to calm one's nerves, even if he did  
hate the things. 

Right now, he needed something, though. Something to do with his  
hands, some way to compose himself he hadn't found yet. 

The company he was keeping didn't help matters much. Kucinski and  
"Tunes" Music were riding in the backseat, Agent Glickman driving.  
Music and Kucinski were speaking, talking about college basketball,  
Duke's chances this year. Glickman -- a somewhat dim, bullying sort  
of man -- was quiet next to him, glancing his way from time to time  
as they made their way through traffic down the street. 

The conversations of the past 12 hours were still fresh in Mulder's  
mind. First, the call from Scully at around 9:30 last night, his cell  
phone chirping into the quiet, the television's sound barely audible  
in the room. He'd been brooding, even Bo keeping his distance in  
front of the chair on the other side of the room. 

"Mulder," she said. Her voice had been quiet, terse. He'd just  
spoken to her about five that evening, their nightly check-in that  
Rosen allowed, as long as no land lines were used, and she'd sounded  
pinched even then. Frustrated and somehow dulled by the isolation. 

But this was different. Something was wrong this time, and she was  
trying to hide it. It was hidden there, though, beneath the two  
syllables of his name. 

"What is it, Scully?" he asked. "Something's wrong." 

"Yes," she'd said, hesitated. "Mulder, I'm spotting again." 

He'd sat upright on sofa a bit more, the leather squeaking. "How  
bad?" 

"It's not bad, but it's steady," she'd replied. 

"You want me to call Hannah for you." He didn't ask it as a question. 

"Yes, I think you should. Tell her it started about six and it's  
been steady since." 

Since six. She'd waited almost four hours to call him. He pictured  
her in the room, some of Rosen's agents outside the door, and her  
with no one there...

"I'll call her right now," he'd said, his tone now matching hers.  
"Sit tight. I'll be right back to you." 

And he had called Hannah, waited for her return call. After, he'd  
picked up the phone again and called Skinner, who'd called Rosen.  
While he sat there and waited for Skinner to get back to him, he'd  
grown more and more tense, more frustrated. 

It was Rosen who called him back.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen had said without prelude, "I understand your  
wife needs some medical attention." 

"Yes, she does," Mulder replied, the frustration coming out in his  
tone. "And don't call her 'my wife,' sir, if you don't mind." 

A pause. "How serious is Agent Scully's condition?" 

"Serious enough that her doctor has said she should come to the  
hospital in the morning for tests," Mulder replied. 

"I'm not going to lie to you, Agent Mulder," Rosen said, his voice  
formal but otherwise unreadable. "Extracting her for this is going to  
be a production." 

"I understand that, sir, but you'll understand if I'm not as  
sympathetic to the Bureau's trouble in this as you are." 

"You shouldn't forget," Rosen ventured, "that we're doing all this  
to protect Agent Scully's life." 

"I haven't forgotten," Mulder said. "I appreciate the Bureau's  
intentions in this, though, as you know, I have deep concerns with  
the execution."

"Yes, I'm aware," Rosen said mildly, and paused again. "What time do  
you need her at the hospital?" 

"Ten o'clock. For about an hour." 

"All right then," Rosen said. "I'll send four agents to accompany  
her from the safehouse to the hospital." 

Mulder went still. "I'm going with her," he said, and his tone said  
he wouldn't take any argument. 

"You could be being followed to trace her location. You know this." 

"There are precautions we can take to ensure that I'm not followed,"  
Mulder replied. "I"m sure that, considering we're already talking  
about a production here, a bit more song and dance won't be that  
difficult to manage." 

Rosen was silent for a beat. "All right, Agent Mulder. Be at the  
Hoover Building tomorrow at 8:30 in the morning. We'll go from there.  
Contact Agent Scully and tell her to be prepared to go at 9:30." 

"Thank you, sir," Mulder said, relenting. "I...appreciate your  
efforts in this." The words nearly caught in his throat. 

"Goodnight, Agent Mulder." And Rosen had hung up. 

Now, close to 9:30, Mulder watched the scenery stream by -- the  
government buildings, the parks, the monuments in the distance.  
They'd been doubling back around the city for almost an hour, with  
two car changes along the way at two different parking garages across  
town. Rosen had made it a production, all right. 

They passed the White House, Tunes and Kucinski still bitching about  
the Duke team going downhill since someone named Christian had  
graduated, when the hotel came into view, a tall, white and blue  
building in the distance. Mulder found himself sitting up a little  
bit in his seat as he saw it. His palms had begun to sweat. 

The Willard was one of the best hotels in Washington, just two  
blocks from the White House. It had a wide, U-shaped driveway that  
led up elegant steps to a glass front with a revolving door. The  
driveway was jammed with cars, all their hazards flashing, people  
jumbled around with bellhops and carts for carrying luggage topped  
with shining brass bars. 

"What the hell are all these cars doing here?" Mulder hissed as they  
wedged themselves in behind a parked car, empty, its tail lights  
blinking. 

"It's a hotel?" Glickman said, and his voice sounded as dense and  
sour as his face looked. 

"Well, get them to move them out while we get her down here," Mulder  
snapped back, unbuckling his seat belt. "We need this area clear." 

"Relax, Papa," Glickman said. "It would take a fucking wizard to  
have followed us here, and the car's been checked over with a comb.  
Just chill out." 

Mulder scowled at him, particularly for the "Papa" comment, and got  
out of the car, Music and Kucinski following him as the three of them  
wove their way through the cars and people and through the revolving  
door into the lush lobby beyond. 

They rode the shining, carpeted elevator to the seventh floor, and  
Mulder immediately saw the agent sitting there in the small sitting  
area outside the elevators, reading the paper. He nodded to the man,  
who nodded back and let them pass.

Down the hallway to room 710, then Mulder rapped on the door  
lightly, and Scully immediately answered. She looked put together,  
her hair in its neat curve around her jaw, her black and white suit  
on. He could tell from the slight bulge at her side that she carried  
her gun. 

Only her pale face and the bandage still in place on her forehead  
gave the appearance that anything was amiss. That and the flash of  
relief that crossed her face as she saw him, so fast that only he  
could have noticed it. He did his best not to smile, but he was  
relieved to see her so much it made it difficult.

"You ready?" he asked. 

"Yes," she said, nodding to Kucinski and Music, and to Agent Dodd,  
who had come in from the end of the hallway. 

"I'll walk you down," Dodd said. Another agent, a female agent  
Mulder didn't know, was at the stairwell, her hand dipped inside her  
jacket. Mulder nodded to her. 

Mulder looked behind Scully, saw Mae there with Katherine, sitting  
on the neatly made bed. Mae met his eyes over the baby's head, her  
face concerned. 

So she'd been here with Scully, he realized. And though he still had  
hard feelings toward Mae, he was thankful to her, and let a bit of  
that touch his eyes. Mae smiled to him wanly. 

You're welcome, she said with her eyes, and Mulder stood aside to  
let Scully leave the room. 

They walked in a circle around her, like four points on a compass,  
Mulder beside her, Dodd in the front. 

When they reached the elevator, which the agent from the sitting  
area had held for them, he couldn't help it. 

His hand reached down and touched her back as he ushered her in  
front of him, then he stood in the circle around her inside the car,  
her bright red head barely visible in the halo of dark suits and  
silence. 

 

**

Outside, on the opposite side of the street, a figure stood, a small  
device the size of a keychain in his palm. He wore a dark wig, the  
hair slicked back, an expensive suit, a black moustache. A briefcase  
was beside him, a typical Washington businessman on the Washington  
street. He'd gone in the front of the hotel, told them he'd just be a  
moment to check in, and then slipped out the side entrance and  
crossed the street, coming back around the front so he could see  
inside the great glass entrance to the lobby.

He'd seen the men go in the front door, the driver arguing with the  
doorman to get the cars out of the way, without much luck. It was a  
scene of controlled confusion. The man's own car sat silent in front  
of the door, just in front of the car the men had come in. The driver  
\-- the agent -- was gesturing toward it and the doorman was  
shrugging, his hands out helplessly. 

He watched the lobby, saw the knot of men coming through the large  
central area, then come through the doors on one side of the shining  
revolving door. 

He caught sight of the woman, there surrounded by the men, all of  
their heads swiveling, taking in the scene around them. The tall dark-  
haired man beside her -- her husband, he assumed, from watching them  
get out of the car at the restaurant days before -- was looking  
around particularly keenly, his hand on the woman's back. 

The group pulled up short, waiting for the driver to finish his  
argument with the doorman. 

Christie waited, his hand poised on the button in his hand. 

Wait for it, he told himself. He had to be certain this time.

Just wait... 

Finally they started toward the car, weaving through the people  
coming into the hotel. 

Christie touched the button in his hand. Across the street, the car  
he'd left there coughed to life, the engine humming. 

He picked up the briefcase, satisfied. 

Thirty second delay. 

He began counting in his mind as he headed to a car parked there on  
the street, opened the door, the keys already in it. He tossed the  
suitcase in the passenger seat, his own suitcase in the backseat  
behind him. 

Then he started the car and pulled out quickly, driving away.

 

**

Scully was walking toward the car, being hustled along by Mulder and  
Kucinski, when something began to niggle at her mind, as though there  
was something she'd forgotten and was just now remembering...

Cars were starting up all around them, and Frank Music turned toward  
the one in front of their car as it coughed to life, idling. 

She pulled up short, looked around, her hand going to her head. 

"Scully?" Mulder murmured next to her, stopping with her. "What is  
it?" 

"I don't know," she said, taking in the scene around her, the  
people, the cars. "I don't know. I just feel like...there's something  
I..."

She looked at the woman getting out of her car in front of them, a  
bellhop going to her trunk, the woman following behind to open it. 

(The woman was on fire.)

"I..." Scully's hand gripped her forehead as she looked around.

"Scully?" Mulder said, grabbing her. 

(Everywhere, hulks of cars burning, people running, others on fire  
trying to crawl away...)

"Mulder, there's a bomb," she said suddenly, feeling lightheaded,  
the images making her stomach lurch. 

"What??" he said from beside her, holding her arm as she swayed.  
"Where??" 

She turned, pushing at him, grabbed Kucinski's arm as well. 

"What the fuck?" Music said, looking at her. 

Mulder reached over and pushed at Music, dragging Scully with the  
other arm. 

"Back in the lobby! Hurry!" He turned toward the people in the  
driveway. "THERE'S A BOMB! RUN!" 

And then she and Mulder started to do just that, Scully staggering  
along beside him, Music and Kucinski following. 

They reached the glass doors, bolted inside, the sound of shouting  
and screaming behind them. People were pressing through the glass  
doors, into the revolving door, jamming it up...

Scully sprinted as best she could, Mulder beside her. They reached  
the ornate flower arrangement in the center of the lobby, people  
standing up everywhere, bewildered. 

They headed for the marble front desk when--

An eruption from outside, and the whole glass front of the lobby was  
suddenly orange and yellow with flame.

Glass dissolved to splinters in a wall of fire, bodies flying, the  
blast wave coming into the lobby and knocking everyone down in the  
shower of shards and metal. 

Scully felt the terrible feeling of her legs being knocked from  
beneath her and she and Mulder went tumbling together toward the  
desk, heat blasting over them, Mulder flattening his body on top of  
hers as the full sound of the blast boomed in the high ceilinged  
room, pieces of the crystal chandelier, plaster, bits of metal  
falling everywhere. 

"Oh God," she said, feeling renewed pain in her side, curling into a  
ball around it. It was agony. She struggled beneath him. 

"Stay down," Mulder said, keeping his body on her as glass continued  
to rain down. "Just stay down, Scully..." 

Scully turned her head, feeling strangely groggy, her side shrieking  
with pain, and looked at the front of the lobby, over the ruin and  
the smoke and the people struggling everywhere. 

In the cloudy haze, she saw the woman now, moving as though she were  
dancing, dancing and on fire. People were screaming outside, awful  
screaming, the bodies jammed in the revolving door writhing, encased  
in flames.

 

**

10:16 a.m.

 

Granger pulled his truck up just outside the police tape, pulling  
out his FBI identification as an officer came up to the window to  
immediately tell him to move the car. 

"All right," the officer said. "Watch your step, Mr. Granger.  
There's glass and sharp objects everywhere around the scene, all  
right?" 

"Sure," Granger said, and climbed out of the X-Terra, ducked  
carefully under the yellow tape and headed toward the battered hotel,  
fire trucks still there hosing off the front of the building,  
ambulances gathered everywhere. People walked around as if in a daze,  
some with bandages, streaks of blood on their arms and faces. 

He caught sight of Skinner, standing in a knot of agents, and found  
his way onto the perimeter, listening in on what Skinner was saying. 

"...he's a white male, somewhere between 30 and 40, about six feet  
tall, approximately 160-175 pounds, black hair with a black  
moustache. When he was last seen, he was wearing a navy or black  
business suit and carrying a briefcase. We're to assume he's armed  
and extremely dangerous. A sketch should be available shortly for you  
to look at it, and even if the suspect was wearing a disguise, we'll  
get a general idea of his facial shape and structure. Now start  
combing the area. Dismissed." 

The agents broke away, moving quickly through the emergency  
personnel, leaving Granger there with Skinner, who looked over at  
him. Granger had never seen him look more tense, a vein bulging from  
his temple. 

"It's about time you got here," he snapped, started walking toward  
the side of the hotel, where the press was gathered, held at bay by  
police. Granger could see Rosen standing in the distance, talking to  
a bunch of very official looking men, including, Granger realized,  
Don Martin, the head of the ATF. 

"I came as fast as I could," Granger said. "I was roughing up a  
quick profile sketch before I came over, based on what you told me  
over the phone about the physical description and the initial  
ballistics." Keeping up with Skinner's pace was making his chest and  
shoulder ache worse. 

"Yeah, I'd like to read your profile," Skinner grunted. "Son-of-a-  
bitch kills 18 people at a hotel, using enough TNT to blow up *ten*  
cars, two blocks from the fucking White House. I'd like to get ahold  
of this one's *profile* all right." He swore again under his breath. 

"He was more determined this time," Granger said, getting winded. "I  
think he was shamed by having missed last time and wanted to be  
certain he hit the target."

"He hit the target all right," Skinner said under his breath. "Look  
at this place." 

They were skirting the front of the building now, the lovely white  
stone of the entrance blasted, as though someone had thrown black  
paint up to the third floor. Curtains billowed out broken windows,  
and the roof over the driveway had collapsed onto the ruined shapes  
of many cars, some of them still billowing smoke, firemen hosing the  
scene down. Here and there around the entrance, white sheets were  
thrown over bodies, the sheets stark against all the blackness. 

"My God, sir," Granger said, stricken. "How could this happen? Did  
he follow Mulder here?"

"No," Skinner said dully, as though he were in shock. His voice was  
sad. "No way. The bomb was planted before they got here. We don't  
know how he found her." 

They were silent for a long beat, taking it all in, letting it sink  
in. It was a lot to take. 

"Rosen's got to talk to the press," Skinner said into the quiet.  
"Come on." 

They closed the distance between them and the knot of official-  
looking men, Rosen turning and going with them toward the cluster of  
media, cameras waving over heads, a podium set up and a collection of  
microphones gathered at the front of it. Reporters started shouting  
questions immediately as Rosen took the podium, his arms raised for  
silence. 

Granger and Skinner stopped behind them, both of them looking as  
grave as they felt. 

"We're going to do this in an orderly fashion," Rosen said. "I have  
a statement, and then I'll take the questions I can answer at this  
point, which won't be many, I can assure you." He drew himself up,  
cameras going off, hand-held tape recorders jutting towards his face  
as the reporters quieted down. 

Rosen cleared his throat. "At 9:36 this morning, an explosive device  
was detonated here outside the Willard Hotel. The device was planted  
in a parked automobile at the entrance, and was, apparently,  
detonated remotely in an attempt to take the life of a Federal Agent  
being sequestered here for her own protection. This agent was, at the  
time, being moved to another location." 

"What is the condition of this agent?" one of the reporters shouted. 

Rosen took in a deep breath and continued as though the reporter  
hadn't spoken. "There were 18 deaths as result of the bombing, and 42  
injured, nine critically. Among the 18 dead are three agents in the  
FBI. Agent Bill Dodd and Special Agent Don Glickman, both killed in  
the initial blast out in the driveway." 

He looked at the reporters, paused, camera flashing. 

"And the third is the person whom we believe was the intended target  
for the bombing, who died en route to the hospital of massive  
internal injuries..."

Granger swallowed, looked down. He felt hollow inside, from all of it.

Even before he heard the name. 

 

*******

 

THE AMBASSADOR HOTEL   
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK   
MARCH 4   
11:32 a.m.

 

A dark cherry casket covered with white sweetheart roses, the roses  
dusted with the falling snow. A hill overlooking a wide dark body of  
water stitched with boats moored near the shore, the water's surface  
choppy and capped with white as the storm clouds huddled on the  
horizon. A grey day in late-winter.

The bar across the bottom of the television said: "Live. Church of  
the Resurrection. Annapolis, Maryland," the camera pulled back some  
distance from the knot of people around the coffin, the sea of  
wreathes and flowers so bright against all the black and grey. 

Even the blanket over the man in the wheelchair, which was set close  
to the middle of the coffin, was the color of charcoal and matched  
the heavy sky. 

Christie watched the scene unfolding on the television, a tray of  
food in front of him on the table brought up by room service. His  
eyes were on the man in the wheelchair -- this man Christie knew only  
as "Mulder" -- on his blank face beneath the bandages swathing his  
head, his left eye covered by white. Mulder's hands were folded on  
his lap on the blanket, his knuckles white. His leg was extended in  
front of him and bulged beneath the covers, the obvious shape of a  
full-leg cast. 

Christie took another bite of his lunch -- a burger cooked extra  
rare -- and scanned the other people in the crowd. An older woman  
dressed in a black wool coat on one side of Mulder, her face like  
steel despite the tears she dabbed from her cheeks with a crisp white  
handkerchief in her black-gloved hands. A black man and woman  
standing close to the wheelchair, the woman's hand on the rest beside  
Mulder's arm. Then the man Christie had come to know as Deputy  
Director Jack Rosen, his hands folded behind him, his eyes down. A  
bald man with glasses who he'd seen with Rosen on the news reports,  
standing there still as a headstone. Only one man seemed out of place  
\-- a wild array of long blonde hair and black glasses, a black T  
shirt peeking out from the vee of his jacket. He was the only one,  
along with the short bespectacled man beside him, who didn't look  
like he'd just come from the FBI. 

Agent Scully's life seemed to have been her work -- her work and  
Mulder, whose battered, scratched face was so drawn at this point,  
his jaw so tight, that Christie thought it might crack. 

Mulder had yet to cry. He seemed to be beyond that now. 

A priest with a full, kind face was speaking, reading from the  
Psalms. The bar on the bottom of the screen identified him as Father  
Daniel McCue, Agent Scully's pastor. Then he read from John, a verse  
Christie knew well. He recited it in his head as the priest read. 

"'There are many rooms in my Father's house, and I am glad to  
prepare them for your coming. When everything is ready, then I will  
come and get you, so that you can always be with me where I am...'"

Christie pushed the food away, his appetite waning. 

McCue turned to the group now, a card in his hand. His face was  
grim. "Dana was a light to us all, a very bright light. All of us --  
myself included -- can only comfort ourselves with the fact that she  
is with God now, safe from the troubles of this world in her Father's  
house and is at peace." 

He turned slightly now, looking directly at Mulder. "I know she  
would not want us to grieve her, to despair. She would want to  
comfort us in this time, and she would want us to celebrate her life  
and her memory. For this reason, I offer to her mother, Margaret, and  
to her husband, Fox, these words, words which I think Dana would say  
to each of you herself."

He lifted the card. 

"This comes from Harry Scott Holland, the Canon of St. Paul's  
Cathedral. He offers this: 'Death is nothing at all. I have only  
slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we  
were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar  
name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no  
difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.  
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.  
Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the  
household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without affect,  
without a trace of shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant.  
It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why  
should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for  
you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All  
is well.'" 

Christie watched Scully's mother. Margaret. He sounded the name in  
his mind. She had reached her hand over and placed it over both of  
Mulder's at his waist. Now Christie saw the tears on Mulder's face,  
which Mulder made no move to wipe away. He seemed unable to move at  
all. 

"I offer you all Christ's peace," McCue said, and he stepped away  
from the microphone that had been set up on the small podium. 

Then, the long note of a bagpipe playing into the snowy air, a  
throaty sound. "Amazing Grace." 

Across the room, Christie's phone rang and he rose to get it, almost  
relieved at the jarring sound. 

"Yes," he said into the receiver. 

"Are you watching CNN, Christie?" the ancient voice said, breathy  
and frail. 

"Aye, I've been watching a bit," he replied, trying to sound  
nonchalant. 

A pause. "Time for you to come home then. Until we find where the  
other one has gone to." Another pause. "Time for you to be home." 

"That's good then," he said. "Good to be home." He meant the words  
more than he could say.

"There's a ticket waiting for you at the British Airways counter at  
La Guardia. The flight leaves in four hours. They'll be a car to pick  
you up on the other side. Not to worry about that." 

"All right, then," Christie said. "I'll get my things packed up. Be  
on my way." 

"Travel safely," and the line went dead. 

The song was still playing in the room from the television, the  
camera's microphone picking up the faint sound of wind as it  
fluttered the blanket of roses on the coffin. Christie watched it as  
he hung up the phone, then sunk his hands in his pockets. 

He listened for a moment as the camera panned the scene, the sea of  
faces, the deep cold bay beyond them. 

The song was still playing as he came forward and reached for the  
remote on the table, hit the power button, and the screen went  
mercifully black. 

 

************

 

CAPITAL BELTWAY, INNER LOOP   
OUTSIDE BETHESDA, MARYLAND   
1:34 p.m.

 

Mulder lay on his back on the stretcher, the ambulance rocking  
gently around him, soothing him. He looked up at the ceiling,  
pretending to be alone, pretending the paramedic wasn't sitting  
beside him. He'd asked for the interior light to be turned off, and  
he lay in the relative dimness and closed his one uncovered eye, let  
out a deep breath.

"You okay, Mr. Mulder?" the paramedic asked from beside him,  
sounding uncertain. 

"Yeah," Mulder said dully. "Thank you." 

The paramedic leaned back against the opposite wall and let him be. 

He relished the quiet, the darkness. The cameras at the funeral had  
been nearly too much to take. It all had been. His mother-in-law's  
grief and worry, the silent faces that looked on him with such pity  
as he'd wheeled himself up to the coffin, Skinner and Rosen talking  
to Maggie, and waited for everyone to leave. 

He remembered sitting there, looking at the covering of roses, the  
snow. He'd reached out after a moment and gently tugged a handful of  
the tiny flowers from the blanket, their faint fragrance drifting in  
the frigid air. 

He'd held the flowers up to his face, inhaled deeply, his eyes  
clenching shut. He was suddenly shaking, his whole body tightening. 

Not with sorrow. With rage. 

His fist closed around the flowers, tiny thorns digging into his  
palm. 

"Fox," Maggie had said from behind him.

He'd composed himself as best he could, opened his fist. He was  
painfully aware of cameras clicking off around him, agents holding  
reporters with cameras away. 

The flowers dropped softly onto his lap with a tap. 

Maggie came around beside him, reached out and touched his shoulder.  
Squeezed. In her other hand, a bunch of flowers. "Time to go." 

Granger had appeared then and pushed him slowly away from the coffin  
toward the ambulance waiting on the road below. Maggie walked with  
him, and the Lone Gunmen had followed, Robin behind them, looking  
like a bulldog as she shooed the reporters away. 

"Let us know if you need anything," Frohike had said, standing there  
as they'd loaded Mulder onto a stretcher, two paramedics attending.  
Frohike looked glum, his eyes rimmed with red. "Anything at all. We  
got your back." 

Langley and Byers had nodded silently, put their hands on his arm as  
he thanked them for coming, and then the three of them had walked  
away. 

Granger and Robin had done the same with a promise to call later,  
and then they, too, had drifted off. 

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked Maggie as they finished strapping  
him in. 

Maggie nodded, wiped her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "I'm going to  
go home and call Charlie and Bill. They said they'd be waiting to  
hear from me, that they'd be watching." 

Mulder nodded. "Give them my best," he said, and Maggie leaned over  
and kissed his cheek softly, mindful of his battered face, Mulder  
turning his face to do the same. 

"Here," Maggie said, and she handed him the bunch of flowers. They  
were bright. Wildflowers. "A "Get-Well.'" 

Mulder took them, lay them beside him. "Thank you," he murmured.  
"I'll call." 

And they'd put him in the ambulance, Maggie's face the last thing he  
saw as they'd driven away. 

"Almost there," the paramedic said from beside him as the ambulance  
slowed, taking a wide turn off the highway.

He tried to block the memory from coming. He couldn't. 

 

He'd been waiting at her old apartment for her, a frozen pizza  
beginning to burn in the oven as she'd come in and he'd met her in  
the living room. 

"I was getting worried," he'd said. "You didn't say you'd be late." 

She had not, in fact, said where'd she been going that afternoon at  
all. Only that she had an errand to run and that she'd meet him back  
at home. 

He looked at her carefully, standing there fumbling her keys onto  
the table behind the couch. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying,  
though she looked down and tried to hide her eyes from him, her face. 

"What is it?" he'd asked. "Scully?" 

He'd closed the space between them, put his hands on her upper arms,  
their bodies almost touching. "Tell me," he said softly. 

"Mulder," she began, her voice halting. "There are...some things I  
haven't told you."

He hadn't liked the sound of that, but he'd nodded. "Okay," he'd  
said. "What things?" 

She'd hesitated again. "Some things I've been seeing. Since we  
finished the case with the Dillards in Virginia." She looked up into  
his face, and something had crossed her features then, something a  
little guilty and sad. "I'm sorry." 

He knew she didn't fully trust her abilities, so it was not exactly  
a shock to him. It still made him concerned. "Bad things again?" he  
asked. 

And she shook her head. "No. Not this time." 

He grew more puzzled. "Then why didn't you tell me?" His voice was  
gentle, urging. 

She looked down, then up into his face again. "I wanted to be sure  
before I said anything."

"'Sure'? Sure of what?" He was shaking his head, trying to find his  
footing. Her reticence wasn't helping. 

"Where did you go today?"

Tears were welling, but she pressed forward. "I went to the doctor,"  
she said softly. "I had some tests." 

"And?" he urged, his stomach dropping.

She looked up at him, smiled a bit uncertainly, almost shy. 

"Mulder, I'm pregnant." 

He hadn't breathed for a few seconds, searching her face. She  
reached up and cupped his elbows, nodded when he didn't speak. A lump  
had formed in his throat. 

Then a smile bloomed on his face, warmth rushing through him. He  
leaned forward and kissed her, stayed close when they parted, his  
forehead touching hers. 

"Tell me," he'd breathed at last, watching her tears, her matching  
smile. "I want you to tell me...everything..."

 

There in the ambulance, he turned his head to the side, his hand  
coming up to cover his face. The hand was trembling, and his face  
felt hot enough to blister.

"Mr. Mulder?" the paramedic said again. "You sure you're okay?"

Mulder didn't look up, didn't move his hand. "Leave me alone," he  
said, his jaw clenched. "Just leave me alone." 

And the poor man, mumbling an apology, did just that. 

They were on a city street now, moving through traffic. It wasn't  
but another few minutes before they turned into the driveway for  
Bethesda Naval Hospital, through the wide gate. 

Then they were wheeling him out, and they deftly transferred him to  
a wheelchair. An orderly took him from there, pushed him into the  
elevator, the flowers balanced on Mulder's lap. 

The orderly turned a key for one of the higher floors, and the car  
began to move. 

Then he was in his room, light from the window meek on the bed, the  
snow heavier now, everything quiet. 

Mulder sat for a few moments in front of that window, simply looking  
out at the sky. His mind was numb, clouded over, anger still coursing  
through him like a second pulse. 

On the night stand, the room's phone rang. Once. Twice. 

Mulder at first made no move to get it. He seemed frozen in place. 

Three times. Four. 

Finally, he put his hands on the wheels of the chair he sat in,  
backed toward the table, and lifted the phone. 

"Yeah," he said into it. 

"Mulder." It was Skinner, his voice quiet. 

"Yeah," Mulder said again, flat. 

"I've got a call waiting here for you," Skinner said. "I'm going to  
put it through to you on this line." 

"I don't want to talk to anyone," Mulder said immediately. The anger  
was in his voice now. Anger and fatigue. 

"You'll want to talk to this person," Skinner insisted, unflapped by  
his tone. 

Mulder heaved out a breath, his eyes still staring blankly out the  
window. "All right," he said. "Put it through."

There was a series of clicks, then a voice came quietly through the  
receiver. 

"Agent Mulder." 

Mulder's eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter in the chair,  
as much as the cast would allow him. He didn't need to hear an  
introduction to know that voice. He'd know it anywhere. Its gentle  
timbre. 

Albert Hosteen.

"Mr. Hosteen?" Mulder said, his surprise in his voice. "What--"

"I have been watching the television this morning," the other man  
said softly. "I see things. Things I do not like to see."

"Yes," Mulder replied. If Hosteen had seen the news, there was  
little else for Mulder to say to him. 

"It is time for you to come see me again," Hosteen said into the  
beat of silence. "You should come here to grieve. And to heal." 

"Mr. Hosteen, that's a generous offer, but I--" Mulder was shaking  
his head. 

"Yes, time for you to come. And for you to bring whoever and  
whatever you need to feel safe again." Another small pause. "Do you  
understand me, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder froze then, turning Hosteen's words over in his mind. 

"I can't ask that of you," Mulder said at last. 

"You are not asking me for anything," Hosteen said quietly, his  
voice firm. "I am offering." 

"You don't know what you're offering," Mulder tried again. 

His head had begun to itch beneath the bandages. He reached up and  
felt for the seam, pulled at the tape, unwound the gauze. The patch  
fell away from his eye and he was relieved when he opened it again. 

He tossed the bandages aside into the trashcan, rubbed at his eyes. 

"I know what I am offering," Hosteen said. "I know what I have seen.  
I know what it means." 

Mulder leaned over, put the flowers on the bed, then pulled the  
blanket off himself, balanced the phone on his shoulder as he lowered  
the leg of the chair holding his cast up, set his heel on the floor.  
He pushed himself up, then balanced carefully in his black coat and  
pajamas and robe. He took off the coat, laid it on the bed. Then he  
untied the robe, took it off, moving slowly, his hip against the bed. 

"There are more people involved this time," he said. "People you  
don't know. I wouldn't be coming alone." 

He peeled out of the plain blue top, not even unbuttoning it, just  
pulling over his head, being careful of the deep scratches on his  
face, the bruises. 

"Lots of room," Hosteen said mildly. "Quiet. Peaceful. A good place  
to heal." 

Mulder considered this. 

"Let me do some asking around," he said. 

"Yes," the other man said. "You do that. I will be waiting, Agent  
Mulder. Goodbye." 

And the line went dead. 

Mulder looked at the phone in his hand, the dial tone humming at him  
as the phone clicked over. Then he replaced it on the cradle. 

He watched the snow, thinking again. 

Then he put his hands on the waist of his pajama bottoms, pushed  
them down over his boxers, down the heavy leg of the cast, stepping  
out of them.

On the inside of the cast, a zipper was hidden in a fold of gauze.  
He moved the gauze aside and grabbed hold of it, pushed it down with  
a scratching sound, and the cast gaped open. He pushed it around his  
leg and lay it at the foot of the bed, flexing his knee. 

He walked the few steps to the small wardrobe in his underwear,  
pulled out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved henley, and slipped them  
on. A pair of socks and his shoes, and he returned to the bed, where  
the bunch of wildflowers sat, the three tiny white roses from the  
coffin. 

He picked them up, then headed out into the hall. 

Orderlies, people in white coats who looked like doctors and nurses,  
all nodded to him as he passed. 

Finally he reached a door, the name on the chart outside the door  
"Elizabeth Shultz." He knocked gently and went inside. 

She was lying on the bed, facing away from him, but her head turned  
up toward a television suspended from the ceiling. He recognized the  
sound and the channel as CNN. She craned her neck to look at him,  
turning slightly on her back, the movement obviously painful. 

"Hey," Scully said, her voice hoarse. 

"Hey," he said, and tried to smile. He came around to the chair on  
the side she was facing, stood in front of it and leaned over her,  
pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in.  
Her hand came up and stroked his face, curled around the back of his  
neck. 

"How you feeling?" he asked softly. 

"Sore," she said. "But okay. The baby's been moving a lot today."  
She smiled at him, brightening her battered face. "I think she's  
playing."

He smiled at the thought. "I'm glad," he said. Then he turned to the  
television.

"You said you weren't going to watch," he murmured. 

"I know," she said softly. "But I wanted to be there with you. Any  
way I could."

He kissed her lips softly, then sat down on the edge of the chair,  
leaned on his forearms on the bed, taking her hand. He laid the  
wildflowers on the mattress beside her. 

"These are from your mother," he said. "She said they're a 'get-  
well.'" 

Scully smiled, but it was sad. "It was hard on her," she said  
faintly. 

He nodded. "She did fine, though. They all did." 

He glanced up at the television again, stroking her hand. They'd  
watched Agent Dodd's funeral yesterday, sitting almost like this. The  
memory made him ache, and he could see from her face that the  
familarity of it did the same to her. 

"Mulder," she'd said as they'd watched, her voice soft. "I don't  
want anyone else to die. There are 19 people dead now. Nineteen  
people who didn't have to die. I can't help but feel responsible for  
it in some way..." 

He could see the same feelings on her now as she studied his face. 

"You cried," she whispered, stroking back the hair at his temple. 

He nodded. "Yes." 

He reached up and laid the tiny sweetheart roses next to her now,  
rubbed the soft body of one against her bruised cheek, trying to  
tease a smile. It didn't work. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry it was so hard for you, too." 

He looked down, then into her eyes. "I have a lot to lose," he said  
simply. 

She nodded. "So do I." And she took the rose from his hand. 

He leaned up, the flowers between them, kissed her again. 

"I've never seen you as angry as you were when you picked these up,"  
she said. "The rage on your face."

He nodded, though her words made him ashamed. 

"You've got to control it somehow, Mulder," she said gently, but her  
voice was serious. "You're not going to do me or you or the baby any  
good unless you can." 

He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. Even now he could feel the  
tinge of the fury in him, like something hot in his chest. 

He'd never felt more threatened. Never felt like so much was at  
stake. He reached down and touched her belly beneath the heavy tape  
where her ribs -- broken and set now -- were braced. 

"I'm going to be all right," she said. "And so is Rose. We're going  
to be safe now." 

He looked at her, thinking of the phone call with Hosteen. 

He remembered the mornings on the porch at Hosteen's place, looking  
out over the desert, the way the sky opened up there, no one around.  
The sounds of horses and the smells of coffee and good cooking. The  
bright bright stars at night. 

A quiet place. 

A peaceful place.

A place to heal. 

And finally, squeezing her hand, he nodded. 

 

*

*****


	2. Chapter 2

******

 

ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL   
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX   
NEW YORK, NEW YORK  
MARCH 8 (FOUR DAYS LATER)   
10:04 a.m.

 

The cathedral smelled faintly of incense and dust and oiled wood,  
the ceiling drifting with wisps of smoke from the offering candles at  
the front of the massive building, glowing with pinpricks of light  
that bathed the alabaster statues above them in flickering light. 

Skinner took all this in as he came down the wide main aisle, moving  
against the thin crowd coming away from the 9:00 a.m. Mass, mostly  
old women leaning on canes and wearing various shades of grey and  
black. Still others were emerging from the squat bodies of  
confessionals at the sides of the church, their eyes down. They  
looked to Skinner like frail old birds moving in their dark plumage,  
their hands trailing the shiny bodies of rosaries. 

Granger walked beside him, one hand in the pocket of his leather  
jacket, his eyes darting around the expanse. It was Granger who held  
the photograph, the picture of the man Mae had sent them to, taken  
from the man's house which they'd just visited, frightening the man's  
aged mother in the process. She'd handed over the picture, taking it  
from a frame on the mantle, her eyes still as wide as they'd been  
when Skinner had introduced himself and flashed his badge. 

"My son's done nothing wrong," she'd said, her voice heavy Irish and  
quiet as the grave. She wore a heavy black dress, her hair in a grey  
bun. The house smelled like bread. 

"I'm sure you're right," Skinner had said, smiling stiffly, and  
taken the picture just the same, heading to the church where his  
mother said her son would be. 

Now Skinner stopped in the middle of the cathedral, glanced at the  
photo in Granger's hand once again, and looked around. Granger did  
the same. 

Only a few figures remained in the pews, and only one of them a man  
who looked, from the back, that he might be the right age they were  
searching for. He was in the second row, in conversation with an  
elderly priest, their heads bent close together as though they didn't  
want anyone else to hear what they were saying. 

"That's got to be him," Granger said softly, noting the curly black  
hair above the neck of the navy jacket, hair that matched the  
picture, that of the smiling man in the center of a group of smiling  
men. 

Skinner nodded, said nothing, and began walking again, Granger  
falling in behind him.

The priest looked up as they approached and some look Skinner  
couldn't quite place passed over the aged man's face. Whatever it  
was, it passed quickly, and the man took his leave, the younger man  
in the pew turning to face them as they approached, coming around the  
front of the pew, the man following them with his eyes. 

He regarded them with a studied, careful expression, his blue eyes  
bright even in the dim light. 

"Conail Rutherford?" Skinner said. He did not remove his hands from  
his trench coat as he spoke. 

"Aye, I'm Rutherford," the man replied. He eyed Granger. "Can I help  
you with something?"

Skinner introduced himself, and Granger, noted that Rutherford  
didn't flinch at their titles. Then he gave a look around, listening  
to the hollow sounds of footsteps in the wide open space.

"We'd like to speak to you, if we may. Would you prefer to go  
somewhere else to do it?"

Rutherford's gaze didn't waver. "I've got nothing to say I can't say  
here," he said, but he kept his voice pitched soft. His accent was as  
thick as his mother's. "In fact, no offense, but I've got nothing to  
say at all." 

"No offense taken," Skinner said, shaking his head. "But I do think  
you've got something to say."

"How d'you figure that, Mr. Skinner?" Rutherford said, leaning back  
and putting his arms across the back of the pew. 

Skinner glanced at Granger, who began to speak. 

"Mr. Rutherford, are you aware of two recent bombings in the D.C.  
area?" Granger said, his voice even, non-confrontational.

The other man's eyes darted from Granger to Skinner and back again. 

"Aye," he said. "Those agents who got killed? That woman?" 

"Yes," Skinner said. "Agent Dana Scully. Does that name mean  
anything to you, sir?" 

Rutherford gnawed on his bottom lip. "No, it doesn't," he said. 

Skinner was about to say something, but Granger, whom Skinner could  
see was watching Rutherford as though he were studying a particularly  
intricate painting in a museum, beat him to it. 

"You're lying, sir," Granger said, his voice that same even timbre. 

Rutherford's face grew red, as though someone had just smeared him  
with blush on his pale cheeks. "I like your approach, Mr. Granger,"  
he said, and there was something low in his voice, angry. "You'll  
call me a liar but still call me 'sir.' I like that." 

"No offense, of course," Granger replied, tossing Rutherford's  
earlier words back at him. He gave a small smile. 

"Right," Rutherford said, glanced around. "Now if you two will  
excuse me, my father just passed away a few days ago. I'm here for  
some solace, not--"

"Mae Curran sent us to you, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, opening  
the bomb-bay doors and letting it fly. 

The bomb hit its target. Rutherford gaped, and his face grew redder. 

"I don't know who you mean," Rutherford tried, but even he couldn't  
seem to muster an ounce of earnestness in the words. 

"Let's cut the bull--" Skinner glanced at the disapproving eyes of a  
saint in the stained glass on his right, and bit back the word he  
intended to use. "We know who you are, Mr. Rutherford. And what you  
do. And who your friends are. There's no use hiding any of that from  
us. Or trying to." 

Rutherford looked down at Skinner's feet, his jaw working. 

"And frankly," Skinner continued. "We don't give a good god--" He  
bit off the word again. "We don't care about any of that. From what  
we understand, you have never been involved with the operations of  
the terrorist arm of the IRA, at least not in any direct way that we  
can implicate you."

"So what is it you want from me then?" Rutherford said sharply. 

"Those bombs, the ones that killed those people in D.C., were from  
someone connected to the IRA," Granger said softly. 

"Not a chance," Rutherford said, scoffing. "Not a bloody chance."

"What makes you say that?" Skinner asked. "How can you be so sure?" 

"The IRA doesn't operate outside of Ireland like that, not that it  
operates at all anymore. And they've got no reason to go after that  
woman or any of those other people. They don't do a thing without a  
reason and a damned good one at that." 

"If you say so," Skinner said, feeling the hair on the back of his  
neck stand on end. The words stuck in his craw. He couldn't help the  
sardonic tone that came with his reply. 

"Don't be so quick to judge what you don't know a thing about,"  
Rutherford said, his voice getting quieter, his teeth clenched. 

"I know enough," Skinner said, unable to help himself. 

"How can you be so sure this is IRA?" Rutherford shot back. "It  
could be anyone--"

"Because whoever it is is trying to kill Mae Curran, too," Granger  
interjected calmly, his voice almost like a presence interposing  
itself between the two men. 

Rutherford paused, regarding him. "Then it's not IRA," he said. "For  
certain."

"What makes you so sure?" Skinner repeated, calmer now. 

Rutherford seemed to struggle with himself, then he said,  
hesitantly: "Because there's a 'hands-off' on her. No one would dare  
touch her, even if they wanted to, which they *don't*. And besides.  
No one even knows she's alive. We assumed Owen Curran killed her."

"No," Skinner said. Time to roll the dice. "We have her. In  
protective custody. Her and her baby and Owen Curran's son. Her  
husband was killed in Australia. By a bomb that Australian  
authorities say matches the device used in both the bombs used in  
D.C. to kill Agent Scully."

Rutherford met his eyes seriously. "Australia?" he said  
incredulously. "That's no IRA I know of. Nobody's got arms that long.  
And they wouldn't kill Mae. No one blames her for what she did to  
Owen. Not a person in Ireland blames her after what he did to the  
embassy here." He looked at both of them. "And no one blames that  
agent who died, either." 

"Someone blames both of them," Granger said. "Very much." 

Rutherford seemed to consider for a moment, looking down. "I can't  
help you find who is doing it," he said at last. "I don't know where  
to start looking for someone who would have that kind of capability.  
To even find Mae would be close to impossible. She knows how to  
hide." 

He seemed far away for a moment, in the land of memory. "She always  
did," he added, and he sounded somehow sad. 

Skinner regarded the man, let out a breath. "Who then?" he asked.  
"Who can we go to?" 

Rutherford balked again, shaking his head. 

"Twenty people have died, Mr. Rutherford," he pressed, speaking  
softly through his teeth. "Twenty-one counting Mae's husband. There's  
got to be someone we can talk to." 

Granger's quiet voice filled the space again. "We're talking about  
protecting Mae's life now. Mae and her baby and Sean Curran. That  
matters to you. I can tell that matters to you." 

Rutherford regarded Granger silently. "Aye," he said after a beat.  
"That matters to me."

Skinner looked at Granger, at the look the two men were giving each  
other. He was once again reminded of how good Granger was at his job.  
It was who he was. 

"Then give us someone to talk to," Granger said. "A direction.  
Anything." 

Skinner watched Rutherford war with himself again. Then finally he  
spoke. 

"John Fagan is the one thing those two had in common besides Owen.  
And the only thing Owen had in common with them was the IRA, and the  
IRA wouldn't do this. So it's got to be someone connected to John."

He paused, looked at Skinner. "Word is one of them killed John  
Fagan," he ventured. "Is that so?" 

"Yes," Skinner said. "One of them did." 

Rutherford nodded. "The agent? The woman who died?" 

Skinner rolled the dice again. 

"Yes, Agent Scully killed him." 

It was a lie. The only one he would tell outright. 

Rutherford nodded again. "All right," he said. "I'll...find a way to  
let that bit get out. If this person is doing this for John, maybe  
he'll stop now, knowing that. Knowing he's done his job." 

Skinner nodded. It was what he hoped Rutherford would say. 

"Where do we go to find this person?" he pressed, trying to be  
gentle with his probing, following Granger's lead. 

Rutherford looked at the floor. "I don't know anything about John.  
He was more slick than Owen, kept everything a secret. Kept even his  
family a secret. He seemed to just appear in Belfast one day all  
those years ago. Nobody knew where he came from." 

"Surely there must be *someone* who knows where he came from, who  
his friends were," Granger said. 

"Have you talked to Ed Renahan?" Rutherford offered. 

"Who is that?" Skinner asked, feeling a pulse of adrenaline with  
getting a name. 

"He's Scotland Yard," Rutherford said. "Knows everything there is to  
know about the IRA that the British know. He might know something.  
Something that even I don't know. And he's got...contacts in the IRA.  
Ones I definitely don't know. Or want to know. He might be a good  
place for you start." 

Skinner nodded, looked at Granger, who nodded back, agreeing with  
him silently. They'd gotten all they were going to get. 

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, jamming his  
hands in his pockets, as though he could already feel the cold  
outside. 

"And we're sorry for your loss," Granger said, nodding to the black  
armband pinned to Rutherford's jacket. He handed the man the picture  
from his mother's house, which Rutherford took.

"Thank you," Rutherford said. "Give Mae...my best. And do what you  
can to care for her. I'll see what I can get around." 

"We will," Skinner said. "Thank you." 

He wished Rutherford a good day and turned, heading back around to  
the front of the altar, the priest still there like a sentinel,  
watching he and Granger go back up the main aisle and back out into  
the sunlight. 

 

*************

 

HIGHWAY 371   
OUTSIDE FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO   
12:33 p.m.

 

It all felt so familiar -- the sand of the desert and the dark  
shapes of the mountains in the distance, the scrubby trees and brush  
streaming by the window, the dull winter sky the color of slate. A  
storm was coming in from the north, the sun coming through in  
brilliant rays and piercing down onto the landscape below in wide  
white bars of light. 

Mulder had found a station that played something besides country  
music, oldies from the fifties coming through, "The Great Pretender."  
Scully shifted in the passenger seat of the minivan, being mindful of  
her battered side, and glanced over at Mulder in the driver's seat,  
both his hands on the steering wheel as if he needed his grip to keep  
the car's wheels on the road. 

In a gauzy haze of memory, she saw him there beside her, a beard on  
his face, her own gaunt reflection in the distorted curve of his  
sunglasses. 

Another time, she reminded herself, sitting up a little straighter  
still and forcing herself into the present. 

Her hand went to her belly, the soft roundness of it beneath her  
navel, as the baby fluttered with the movement. She rubbed softly  
against the cotton of her top, the first piece of maternity clothes  
she'd purchased, a deep green pullover that bagged a bit around her  
middle, making room. 

She craned her neck to look into the back seats. Katherine was  
chattering in the far back seat from the carseat they'd secured from  
the rental agency, oblivious to the tension of the other members of  
the car. Sean sat beside her, Katherine patting his upper arm with  
her hand and Sean ignoring her, his eyes out the window and his face  
a slate. He held an action figure in his hand, but only because Mae  
had handed it to him. He would do anything he was told. 

Mae met Scully's eyes for a beat as she looked in her direction, and  
Mae forced a tense smile, just a curl of her lips, as though she  
meant to reassure Scully of something. Scully returned the gesture,  
but she knew the smiles did nothing to comfort either of them. 

In the middle seat, Tunes Music sat, Bo curled up beside him, the  
agent's eyes guarded by sunglasses despite the gloom outside. He was  
chewing a piece of gum, and blew a small bubble quickly, a nervous  
habit. He nodded to Scully, and she did feel somewhat reassured by  
his presence, as though he were the close of the parentheses that  
started with she and Mulder. He'd volunteered for the duty to be in  
charge of Mae's custody and a contact person for the Counterterrorism  
Unit. A man with no family of his own, he'd jumped at the chance to  
be so close to the action on the case.

She faced forward again, Mulder glancing at her and asking the  
ubiquitous question with his hazel eyes. She answered it with her  
own, and then turned her attention to the road, the straight line of  
it, the pavement a battered white and grey split by a broken line. 

She'd slept some on the plane, the government jet that Rosen had  
secured for their transport, and she felt reasonably rested, though  
her mind was heavy with a worry so extreme is was almost like a kind  
of grief. 

Mulder turned onto a smaller highway, this one a two-lane, and a  
sign indicated that they were entering the Navajo reservation, a gas  
station right on the non-reservation side of the line and advertising  
with huge signs that it sold beer. They kept driving, nothing around  
them, hardly even other cars, and those that they did see pickup  
trucks with people riding, bundled, in the back, many of them  
children with hair the color of coal.

It wasn't long before they turned down an even smaller rural route  
and then Mulder was slowing at a long dirt driveway, turning, and the  
trailer was off in the distance, smoke coming idly from the steel  
pipe chimney and drifting in the cool air. 

Two figures were on the porch, and they both stood as the minivan  
came up in front of the house and came to a stop. One, the younger of  
the two, was smiling amiably, his hands jammed in his jeans jacket  
pocket. Victor Hosteen, his hair shorter than she remembered it and  
his eyes just as bright. 

And beside him, looking thinner in a heavy plaid flannel jacket and  
worn jeans, his silver hair draped around his shoulders, was Albert  
Hosteen. He was looking directly at her and standing very still,  
though Victor came forward as the passengers in the car all made  
moves to get out, Music pulling the heavy sliding side door open and  
stepping out with Bo. 

Victor had gone to Mulder's window, his smile even wider now as  
Mulder opened the door, the younger man standing in the gap of the  
door. 

"Hey, Mulder," he said, reaching in and slapping Mulder on the  
shoulder. "You look like hell, man! Your face!" 

Scully had been looking at the deep scratches and bruises on  
Mulder's face for so long now that she hadn't even noticed them  
anymore. It made her painfully aware of how her own face would look  
to Hosteen, bruised as it was, the cut on her forehead uncovered now  
but still angry and red. 

"Thanks, Victor," Mulder grumbled. "It's good to see you, too." 

Victor laughed, and Mulder got out. 

Scully was still looking at Albert Hosteen, and he at her, through  
the window. She tried to smile, but couldn't. Hosteen seemed to see  
it, his lip curling slightly, and he nodded to her. She opened the  
door and got out, easing herself down from the van slowly, holding  
her side. She moved like an old woman, but she couldn't help the  
lingering pain, the stiffness of the travelling. 

Now Albert did come forward, stopped a few feet from her, and she  
looked up at him. 

"Hello, Mr. Hosteen," she said softly, her voice barely there.  
Something about seeing him choked her, emotion rising. She glanced  
away from his intense gaze as she saw him taking her in, his head  
cocking to the side. 

"Agent Scully," he said just as quietly. 

There was a beat of silence between them, Mae coming out of the van  
holding Katherine, Sean close behind her. Mulder and Victor were  
talking on the other side of the car, and Victor was laughing.  
Something about Bo, who had joined them with Music, and something  
about horses.

Scully looked back at Hosteen, and her hand came up to touch her  
forehead. "I look bad, I know," she said. 

He huffed a small laugh. "For someone dead, you look very good," he  
replied, amusement in his voice. She saw his eyes dart to her middle,  
to the obvious protrusion there. "And I told you that I saw you with  
a child." 

Her hand went to cover her belly as though she meant to hide it.  
"Yes," she said, and a tiny smile spread on her lips. "You did,  
didn't you?" 

Mae came and stood beside her, Katherine reaching toward Hosteen  
with one hand, and Sean beside her. Sean was gaping up at Albert as  
though the elderly man had just stepped off a spacecraft. Which,  
Scully supposed, to Sean, he might as well have.

"Mr. Hosteen, this is Mae Porter, her daughter Katherine, and her  
nephew Sean." 

Hosteen reached a hand out and took Katherine's, rubbing his thumb  
along the back of her hand. 

"Mr. Hosteen," Mae said. "A pleasure to meet you. I don't know how  
to thank you for your help by giving us a place to stay." 

Hosteen took her in, studying her. "Plenty of room," he said simply  
with a kind smile, repeating the words Scully knew he'd said to  
Mulder. "A friend of friends is always welcome." 

Now Albert turned to Sean, and Scully saw his brow crease down as he  
looked at him, at the hollow look in Sean's eyes. Sean looked a  
little afraid as Albert reached out and put a hand on his head. 

"Hello," Hosteen said, and Sean did not reply, but his eyes grew a  
bit more wide. Albert only smiled. 

The front door to the trailer opened with a creak and a woman came  
out, a young Navajo woman dressed similarly to Albert, swallowed up  
in flannel and sweatpants. She had long black hair, her face dark and  
full. Her eyes were set deep in her face, and as black as her hair.  
Scully guessed she was about 20, if that.

Albert turned to face her as she came forward, an enigmatic smile on  
her face. 

"This is Sara," he said as she stopped beside him. "Sara Whistler." 

Scully's eyes darted to Hosteen uncertainly at this stranger's  
presence among them, but Albert nodded toward Victor. "She is with  
Victor. She will be here from time to time." 

Scully relaxed some at that, nodded, and Mae reached out and shook  
her hand, Sara saying nothing, that same strange smile on her face. 

Then Sara looked at Scully, taking in her face, the bruising, the  
cuts, her brow coming down for an instant. Then she saw Scully's hand  
on her belly. 

She reached out, and much to Scully surprise, she placed her warm  
hand on top of Scully's over the baby, stroking Scully's shirt with  
her fingers. 

"A girl," Sara said, and her smile grew wider. "A healthy girl."

Scully's eyes widened, and she drew her hand away without meaning to. 

Albert laughed, chuffing softly. 

"Come," he said, nodding toward the ramshackle trailer. "We have  
been cooking. You all should eat." 

And he turned and went toward the house, Sara following with Mae and  
Katherine and Sean, though Mae exchanged a nervous look with Scully  
as she went.

Scully stood there for a few seconds, Mulder coming around the front  
of the van with Victor and Music, Mulder holding Bo's leash. Mulder  
looked at her, the smile he'd shared with Victor melting off his face  
as he saw her hesitate. 

"You okay?" he asked, and Music and Victor looked at her, as well,  
stopping on their way to the house. 

Scully pulled herself up, shaking her surprise and the strange  
feeling of vulnerability and exposure off as best she could. 

"I'm fine," she said softly, and she reached for his outstretched  
hand as he urged her forward and into the house. 

 

**

2:32 p.m.

 

The meal was excellent, if not the healthiest in the world -- fry  
bread, chicken, cole slaw bathed in mayonnaise. Everyone ate, even  
Scully, who did not feel up to eating much, her stomach unsettled  
from hormones and travel. She'd managed a wing, a dab of the cole  
slaw, and Albert's wonderful bread had helped to settle everything  
down. 

Victor had done most of the talking, engaging Mulder with stories  
about the horses, talking about basketball, which he'd apparently  
started watching. Music joined in with vigor, his elbows on the table  
as he ate a leg. 

There weren't enough seats at the table, all the chairs full,  
Katherine toddling on the floor around everyone's legs. Hosteen stood  
at the counter, eating quietly, watching everyone with a small smile  
on his face, as though the sight of all of them in his kitchen  
pleased him somehow. Every once in a while Scully would see him look  
her way, as though checking the progress of her meal. He spent a good  
bit of time watching Sean, as well, who was staring down at his  
plate, eating only when Mae asked him to in a quiet voice. 

"... And UNC--" Victor began.

"Oh, don't talk to me about the Tarheels," Music interrupted, waving  
his hand, making Victor laugh. 

"Come on, man!" he said jovially, and Music continued his protest. 

Scully appreciated the two men's ease -- it all felt normal in a way  
things had not for some time. No talk of bombs or death. Nothing more  
important to them at that moment than March Madness and the Final  
Four. 

She could tell from Hosteen's face as she caught him looking at her  
again that the rest was on his mind, though. Mulder had told him a  
lot on the phone from the hospital, and it was showing on his face.

Not yet, she said to him with her eyes. She needed time. They all  
did. 

Hosteen nodded, drew in a breath and let it out, reaching for his  
coffee.

She looked down at her plate, the remnants of her food, then up at  
Katherine, who was moving away from the table, stumbling across the  
floor.

Scully froze. 

(A tiny hand on the silver handle, reaching up...)

"Mulder," she said, urgent. 

Mulder looked over at her, Tunes and Victor arguing about Duke now,  
Tunes' favorite topic. Mulder's brow furrowed. 

"What is it?" he asked. Mae was getting another piece of chicken for  
Sean, talking to him, Sara at the refrigerator getting more tea.

Scully looked at him. "Get Katherine."

Mulder looked over at the baby, who'd stopped to pick up a napkin on  
the floor. "She's fine, Scully," he said, confused. 

(The skillet tipping, grease the color of amber...)

"GET HER NOW!" she snapped, starting to rise, but her ribs slowed  
her. The room was stunned into silence, Mae coming up, as well. 

Katherine had reached the stove, her hand reaching for the shine of  
the handle, metal on metal as the skillet slid--

Mulder was up in an instant, stepping over Bo quickly. Two long  
strides and he'd grabbed the baby, pulling her out of the way as the  
skillet flipped and grease rained down on the floor with a clatter  
and a hiss. Katherine began to cry in surprise at being jerked so  
hard into Mulder's arms. 

"Jesus!" Mae cried, coming around to get the baby from Mulder, who  
was checking her to make sure no grease had gotten on her exposed  
skin. He handed the screaming baby over to her mother, looking at  
Scully. 

"She's okay," he offered, nodding. "She's all right." 

The room had gone still and quiet except for the baby's cries.  
Everyone was looking at Scully, all of them looking surprised. 

Even Albert looked surprised, looking from the baby and the skillet  
to Scully and back again. 

"How did you...?" Mae began, rubbing the baby's back to calm her. 

Scully pushed off from the table, rubbing at the cut on her  
forehead, her hand shaking slightly, her breathing a bit uneven with  
the waning of her terror at what she'd seen. 

She didn't answer Mae. She felt ashamed. All the eyes on her,  
everyone still, looking at her in confusion and something like fear. 

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her hand still on her forehead.  
"I'm..." She glanced at Mulder. "I'm going to get some air." 

He nodded, looked at the others in the room.

Scully chanced a look at Hosteen, who leaned back on the counter,  
crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded to her, making a small  
affirmative sound in his throat as his eyes bore into hers. Something  
knowing in his gaze.

The feeling of exposure returning, Scully turned and hurried from  
the room. 

 

******

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO   
MARCH 15 (ONE WEEK LATER)   
5:34 a.m.

 

The sky on the horizon was the color of fire, the contrast of the  
darkness fighting with the light so distinct that Mulder could not  
help but focus on the place where the two seemed to meet, blended a  
milky blue, a few stars still peering out from behind the night's  
thick lid. The sun was a semi-circle of brightness bleeding across  
the desert, turning the mountains around them into dark shapes  
throwing darker shadows, everything around him washed in silence. 

His feet were on the cold floor, his elbows on his knees and his  
hands folded in front of him. He was perched on the edge of the bed  
as if to rise, but he hadn't moved for what felt like hours now, his  
bare chest and legs feeling so cold he was almost numb with it. His  
flannel boxers did little to chase away the chill of morning in the  
desert, the ground so bare it held nothing like warmth, the walls of  
the trailer they slept in thin and seeming to make the room even  
colder, the air still. 

But there was warmth behind him, Scully on her side facing him, her  
hair spread out on the pillow behind her, her hands half-hidden in  
the sleeves of a faded Maryland sweatshirt, so old the red was almost  
pink. One socked foot protruded from beneath the many covers, quilts  
on top of quilts on top of worn sheets. 

She had rolled towards him when he'd awoken well before dawn and sat  
up, but had not moved since, only the soft rising and falling of her  
chest, one of her hands on his pillow, clutching softly at the  
mismatched pillowcase. 

The room was simple -- a large window with the drapes half opened,  
the bed made for two. A dresser that looked like it was meant for a  
child's clothes, a drawer-pull missing from the middle. A small table  
with a lamp beside the bed. A braided rug that used to be green, on  
which Bo lay on his side, still as a stone. 

As the sun turned now to a wide bar of light coming in through the  
window, Mulder looked out over the expanse of ground behind the  
house, into the sky, watched a hawk circle lazily on the updrafts,  
looking like it was riding the streams of light. 

He watched the wings, wide and dark. He watched the ribbons of cloud  
above them, moving slowly across the openess of the sky, and he swore  
he could feel the room growing smaller around him, trapping him there  
in the quiet. 

Nowhere. 

That was the word Skinner had used to describe where they were  
going. Nowhere. 

"This guy Renahan is some kind of nutjob," Skinner had said on the  
phone two nights before, his words low as a growl with his  
frustration. "I called Scotland Yard and he's on some kind of  
extended leave -- medical reasons. They wouldn't tell me more. Said  
they weren't giving out his number or putting me in contact with  
him." 

"They can't do that," Mulder had protested over the sounds of the  
television, Hosteen watching some show about whales, everything on  
the screen a bright blue. Scully was watching Mulder from her seat in  
the corner, her brows furrowing at his tone and his words. 

"I'm getting Rosen involved. I'm going to leave footprints on  
somebody's scalp on the way to doing it, too. It's the only lead  
we've got at this point. Granger's beat every bush with Kucinski and  
Anderson from Counterterrorism, and there is exactly *shit* about  
John Fagan in those files. The sonofabitch could have hatched for all  
we know. Nothing. About the only thing we can figure is that Fagan's  
not his real name, and we can't trace an alias from before he got  
together with Curran in the early nineties. No history. No criminal  
records. No nothing. He was just suddenly THERE."

"I've asked Mae everything she knows about him," Mulder replied,  
stepping into the quieter hallway that led to the bedroom he and  
Scully shared in the house, on the opposite end of the house from  
Hosteen's. "He never talked about his past. She can't remember him  
ever talking about any sort of family or even any friends. She just  
keeps saying: 'Owen would have known.'" 

"Well, a fat lot of good that does us," Skinner gruffed. "Has she  
said anything that might be of any help?"

Mulder sighed in frustration. "It's hard to get her to talk," he  
said. "She's not exactly keeping things from us, but she's not  
exactly singing either." 

"Keep working on her," Skinner replied. "We'll see what Rosen can do  
with this guy Renahan. Whatever the hell his deal his. He might be in  
a rubber room for all we know, but we don't have any choice right now  
but to keep after him. I'll be in touch."

We don't have any choice...

Mulder watched the hawk do a few more circles in the sky, still as a  
kite. 

He thought of wings. 

Then he felt a warm hand on his back, right over the long raised  
scar near his side, the remnants of the surgery to save his life the  
last time he'd come to the desert, running and hiding. The skin still  
felt overly sensitive where Scully's fingers were tracing, stroking  
the scar, the puckered skin. 

His eyes dropped to the ragged circle of the exit wound on his  
belly, the scar around it. His body was like a relief map of rough  
terrain. 

"Talk to me," came her whisper, and he turned his head to look at  
her. She hadn't moved, her hair still a lovely blanket of red on the  
pillow, but her blue eyes were open. Her cross was tangled in its  
chain at her throat. 

He said nothing, but he did move.

Leaning over her, his arms going on either side of her body, he  
touched his mouth to hers, her face turning up to meet him. Her lips  
were as soft as they'd looked as she'd spoken, as soft as her voice  
had been, and he pressed himself closer down toward her, seeking out  
that feeling, the warmth. Her hands slid up beneath his arms, her  
fingers on the juts of his shoulder blades. 

Their tongues met and she turned on her back slowly, her nails  
grazing him with the contact. A breath escaped her as they parted,  
and she drew another in, her hand going to his face, tracing his  
lips. 

He asked the question with his eyes, and in answer she reached  
beneath the covers and began to pull at her sweatshirt, drawing it  
up, rising slightly as she did so.

Bare belly, bare breasts, nipples tight with arousal and chill and  
the color of plums. A storm of bruises on her side. 

He peeled the covers back and reached for the rest of her clothes,  
standing to slide them from her body.

In a moment, she lay open as a land surrendering, the small mound of  
her belly like a world, round beneath his kisses. 

He held his daughter between his hands as he slid his tongue beneath  
Scully's navel, moving down between her legs.

He spoke to her then without words, rough skin of his cheek against  
her thighs. He knew she heard everything, her hand stroking his hair,  
then clenching, his whispered name and the softest moans from her  
lips like the songs of doves. 

He answered with his tongue and fingers and breath, hard. Achingly  
alive. 

In a while, she seemed to rise on a great breath, a soft cry caught  
in her palm, and then she was fluttering inside. As though she were  
filled with wings.

His cheek against her belly, he breathed, breathed her in. She  
smelled rich. Of earth and desire. 

Then, moving carefully, he slipped out of his boxers, and, balancing  
on his hands on either side of her head, poised on his knees, he was  
inside her, and he wasn't cold anymore. 

He watched her face as he moved, her eyes wide and on his, her lip  
caught between her teeth, her hands on his chest, smoothing down his  
sides, his hips, clenching as his muscles clenched, pushing into her,  
pushing him out of himself. 

The room flooded with amber light, warm across the bed, pooling in  
her hair. It was so bright he closed his eyes, against it and against  
a pleasure so complete it was almost like pain. 

His face twisted with it, his mouth coming open, and her hand  
covered his lips. 

"Shhhh...." she whispered. 

He swallowed the sound rising in him, his body pulsing, then growing  
still, except for his chest, rising and falling hard beneath her  
other hand.

Moving beside her, he lay facing her, her hands cradling his face.  
Her eyes were sleepy and sated, and there was a small smile on her  
face. 

Their lips moved over the other's and she drowsed in his arms, her  
eyes half-hidden after awhile, her body growing more limp beneath his  
hands. He rubbed his cheek against hers, kissed the soft skin beneath  
her eyes. 

The baby was pressed between them, and his hand moved to cup the  
curve, his thumb stroking the bump of Scully's navel. 

He remembered the things she'd told him. The things he'd seen.

The head of dark hair, tiny body in Scully's arms...

A little girl's head on his chest, his fingers playing in a long  
braid...

Then his face darkened, the smile melting from his face.

Glass shattering, siren wails...

A face hidden in shadows, except for the eyes. 

Watching. Waiting.

Bodies on fire.

He watched Scully's face, watched her beginning to drift, her  
breathing deep.

"Sleep," he whispered. 

She made a small sound of assent, and he pulled the covers back over  
her, over the white of her shoulder to the creamy skin of her throat.  
She didn't move as he slipped from the bed.

He stood and stretched, letting the light play over his body for a  
long moment as he stared out onto the desert, back up into the sky. 

The hawk was gone, nothing above him but a blue so faint it was  
almost white. 

He grabbed his robe and headed for the shower. He did not stay in  
long, his head bowed beneath the spray, the water only lukewarm.

After, Bo stirred, looked up at him with his obsidian eyes as he  
entered the room. His tail thumped the floor once, twice. 

Mulder reached in the top drawer for boxers, for his jeans on the  
dresser, a plain white T-shirt. A pair of socks and his brown boots.  
Beside the door, a jeans jacket lined with white fleece that he  
slipped into, moving in silence. 

He tapped his thigh and Bo rose, going to him, looking up  
expectantly. 

Then he and the dog were out the door, moving down the hallway,  
through the empty kitchen, the living room, and through the front  
door, the screen door creaking closed behind him. 

He stopped just off the porch, his hands in his pockets. 

Move. He needed to move. It didn't matter where.

Nowhere. Nowhere to go.

Turning, he followed the worn path around the side of the house, out  
into the barren backyard. There was a small wind, and it followed him  
and Bo out into the desert beyond the quiet house.

 

** 

 

Pushing back the curtains on his window, Albert Hosteen watched  
Mulder and the dog disappearing down the path, both their heads down.  
At the edge of the boundary of the yard, Mulder stopped, did a full  
circle, his eyes on the house. 

Hosteen watched the look that crossed over the other man's face, the  
way his face dropped, the shake of his head, saying "no." 

To everything.

Then Mulder turned and seemed the survey the mountains in the  
distance for a long moment, Bo sitting beside him, waiting. 

Hosteen watched him, standing still. 

Finally Mulder started walking again, heading down the trail until  
he and the dog disappeared from sight.

Hosteen let the drapes fall closed again, drew in a breath and let  
it out, thinking. 

After a moment, he nodded to himself, coming to some decision. Then  
he turned and began to dress.

 

*****

8:07 a.m.

 

Scully awoke to sunlight flooding the room, naked beneath the  
covers, a warm cocoon she lay within made warmer by the morning sun.  
She reached across the bed, felt the empty space beside her, and  
opened her eyes onto the room around her. 

Mulder gone, and Bo gone, and she could tell from the light that it  
was still early. 

She remembered waking and seeing him sitting on the bed beside her,  
recognized from the curve of his back, his head bowed, that he had  
been deep in thought, and awake for awhile. He hadn't been sleeping  
well since the second or third day they'd arrived, and she had not  
been surprised to find him poised on the bed like that. 

Something was troubling him. More than just the situation they were  
in. Something he wouldn't speak about or name. 

She turned on her back, stared up at the ceiling, and pushed the  
thoughts, the suspicions she had, away. She couldn't think about that  
now. She wouldn't.

So she rose, fumbled on her robe that hung on a hook on the back of  
the door beside his, and went out the door into the hallway, the  
heavy smell of things cooking washing over her, the sound of bumping  
in the kitchen, the elegant, soft sounds of Navajo coming down the  
hallway. Albert Hosteen laughed quietly over something another voice -  
\- a woman's voice she recognized as Sara Whistler's -- had said. The  
sound of the different language informed her the two were alone in  
the room. 

A shower of tepid water, her hands smoothing over her belly in a  
lather of soap. The baby shifted inside her and she kept her hand  
there as she rinsed her hair.

She took a long time drying her hair, putting herself together. She  
had tried to keep her morning routine as close to what she did at  
home as possible, struggling for a sense of normalcy, hoping it would  
rub onto everything else if she did so. She could pretend she was  
simply visiting a friend, instead of what she was actually doing, if  
she kept to her routine. 

Or so she hoped. It wasn't actually working.

By the time she emerged from her room, dressed in a brown shirt that  
buttoned up the front, its tails large enough to go over her belly --  
which seemed to be growing inches by the day now -- a pair of  
maternity jeans that actually didn't look so bad, her brown boots,  
she heard a baby's laugh from the kitchen, and she knew that Mae had  
joined them for breakfast. 

"Good morning," she said to them all as she came into the room, her  
eyes taking in the space, looking for Mulder, who was not there. Bo  
was still gone, as well. Mae smiled up at her, though there were dark  
circles beneath her eyes and she looked care-worn, Katherine standing  
on her lap and bouncing on her legs. Sean sat beside her, dutifully  
eating the food that had been put in front of him, his eyes down. 

Whistler stood at the stove, making pancakes, swallowed in an  
overgrown sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that were too large for her,  
her long black hair tied back in a pony tail. The young woman always  
looked like she were wearing someone else's clothing, someone much  
larger than her tiny form. She was humming something softly to  
herself in a very pleasant voice, though the song was filled with  
minor notes. She smiled to Scully as Scully went to the counter and  
picked up a plate off the mismatched stack, and helped herself to a  
couple of the large, golden cakes, thanking Whistler as she did so. 

Hosteen himself stood beside the open window on the other side of  
the small room, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, a thin stream of  
bluish smoke leaking out into the open window. His eyes were on  
Scully, his lip curling around the pipe. She forced a wan smile back. 

"I bought fruit for you," Hosteen said. "Oranges." He nodded toward  
the refrigerator. 

"Thank you," Scully said again, and she went to the refrigerator and  
drew out a fat navel orange, placing it on her plate beside the two  
pancakes. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble. They can't be  
easy to get here." 

"No trouble," Hosteen said, taking another pull on his pipe. "Mr.  
Skinner sent a check. I went to the store this morning. I keep seeing  
these commercials on television about pregnant women and oranges,  
orange juice. Not sure what it means, but television cannot lie, you  
know." He winked. 

Scully chuffed. "No, never," she said, and she sat beside Mae and  
Katherine, reached for the syrup on the table, for a plastic tumbler.  
She filled the cup with milk. "But in this case, television is  
right." She began to eat, looking at Mae. 

Mae's curly black hair looked frazzled, strands of it refusing its  
ponytail. Katherine reached out a hand toward Scully and said, quite  
clearly, the word "red." 

"Are you sleeping at all?" Scully asked Mae, touching Katherine's  
hand. 

Mae shrugged. "Not much," she said quietly, as though she didn't  
want Hosteen to hear her. 

"The baby?" Scully pressed, taking another bite of pancake. 

Mae shook her head. "No...she sleeps through the night," she said  
softly. "I.." She looked down. "I just have a lot on my mind right  
now." 

Scully nodded. She knew how conflicted Mae was, knew that the other  
woman was aware of the precariousness of her situation, the things  
she needed to say but was keeping hidden. Scully had had to keep  
Mulder from pushing her too hard, knowing that Mae would have to come  
to things she needed to say in her own time. 

The time was coming, though. Scully could see the fissures starting  
in Mae's hard exterior. 

The same way she could see them cracking her own. Hiding would do  
that to a person, being in danger and knowing there was little you  
could do to help the situation would do it. 

Only Mae *could* help it. And Scully knew that Mae was aware of that. 

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Scully asked quietly,  
trying not to sound as urgent as she felt at the notion of new  
information. She reached for the orange, sunk her thumbnail into the  
skin and the air in front of her filled with its sweet smell. 

Mae hesitated, put Katherine down the floor, where the baby, holding  
a tiny wedge of pancake, began to toddle over toward Hosteen, who was  
watching the two women at the table. Whistler continued her humming,  
placed another pancake on the plate and poured another, seemingly  
oblivious to the rest of the room. 

Mae looked at Scully now. She spoke in halting, short sentences. 

"There's a man. Eamon. I don't know his last name. I was never told  
it. He had a lot of dealings with Owen. And with John. John didn't  
trust him, but Owen did. He was a custom's officer and he used his  
position to scout out targets for us. He went to jail, though. I  
don't know if he's out or not. They didn't get him for killing  
anyone. Just for conspiring. He was careful not to have anything too  
close to him. Kept clear of most of the trouble. When Owen split the  
Path off, Eamon stayed with the IRA. Owen was very disappointed he  
didn't come with us. He was quite useful. Smart. Very dedicated." 

"How do you think he can help us?" Scully asked, though she was  
thrilled to get a name. 

Mae shrugged. "He knew everyone in that area. He knew John. He  
coordinated a lot of things. I just wondered if he might be a good  
place to start. I'm willing to bet this man, Renahan, knows of him  
since he was arrested. He might have a way in to talk to him." 

Scully nodded. "Did you tell any of this to Agent Music yet?" she  
asked. 

She wasn't surprised when Mae shook her head. Mae seemed more  
comfortable talking to her than anyone else, even Mulder. There was  
still tension between the two of them, still that sense of blame from  
Mulder when the two of them were together. She wished Mulder could  
help it, but she knew that right now he couldn't. 

"I'll tell Mulder," Scully said. "And he can talk to Agent Music and  
A.D. Skinner about it." 

Sean had finished his meal, and sat there, looking down at his  
plate. Scully looked at him, then up at Hosteen, who was watching the  
boy. 

"Where is Mulder?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant about it,  
tearing off a wedge of orange, and putting it into her mouth. 

"He went out early," Hosteen said, smoke coming with the words.  
Hosteen looked at the end of his pipe, then back up at Scully.  
"Seemed to have something on his mind when he left." 

Scully looked down. "He's just worried," she said. "He's adjusting." 

Whistler turned to Hosteen, said something in Navajo, and Hosteen  
nodded, and said something back, which clearly cut Whistler's line of  
thinking off. He put up a hand to silence her. 

"He needed to leave," Hosteen said. "That feeling will stay. He will  
not adjust to it." 

Scully looked up at him, feeling color rise in her face. What she  
had been thinking that morning as she'd stared up at the ceiling,  
Hosteen now voiced. 

"He's fine," she said, like a knee-jerk. "Mulder's fine." 

But Hosteen shook his head, his eyes boring into hers. Then he  
returned his attention to Sean, brushing Scully's concerns away. 

"Sean and I are going to go down and visit the horses," he said,  
leaning up, and Sean's head shot around to Hosteen, his eyes wide. He  
still didn't speak, but Scully could tell he wanted to. 

"Come with me," Hosteen said softly, reaching his hand out. 

Sean looked to Mae, as if hoping for rescue, but Mae was looking at  
Hosteen. 

"Go with him, Sean," she said softly. "Go see the horses." 

Sean hesitated again, but Hosteen stood still, his hand out. 

"A surprise," he said, and winked at Sean. "Come with me." 

Mae put a hand on the boy's shoulder, urging him up, and Sean got up  
and slowly followed Hosteen out of the kitchen. He did not take the  
older man's hand, and Hosteen did not seem to mind. 

Once they were gone, Scully kept turning over Hosteen's words about  
Mulder in her mind as they gnawed at her. She kept returning to her  
own words to comfort herself. 

Mulder's fine... 

The kettle whistled and Sara got it off the burner, poured it into a  
mug sitting by the sink. A strong smell of mint and herbs filled the  
room. It was not an entirely pleasant smell. 

Then she was bringing the mug to Scully, setting it in front of her  
as she sat across from her, that same knowing smile on her face.

"Drink," she said simply, nodding toward the mug. 

"What is it?" Scully asked, eyeing the other woman and the mug. 

"All the pregnant women here drink this. At least twice a week. Good  
for the baby." 

Scully looked down at the dark liquid. Bits of leaves floated in it  
like ash. 

"No, thank you," Scully said as politely as she could. 

"Smells like a boot," Mae said from beside her, and Whistler laughed. 

"Bad smell, yes," Sara said. "Bad taste, too. But good for the baby." 

Scully wasn't up for a fight, not with Hosteen's strange words  
swirling in her mind, swirling with her own niggling worries, the  
strangeness of the place. 

"What's in it?" she tried, and Whistler only smiled at her. 

"Trust," she said, and pushed the mug a little closer to Scully. "No  
one will hurt you or your baby here." 

Scully looked at Whistler, at that enigmatic smile. 

Trust....

She did trust these people. Hosteen would not let anyone harm her  
here. Not even the odd woman in front of her.

With one final look at Mae, who was looking bemused, Scully reached  
for the mug and began to drink.

 

************

 

29 COOKE STREET   
ISLINGTON   
LONDON, ENGLAND   
1:33 p.m. 

 

Beneath the window, people from all walks of life milled along the  
streets, cars clogging the roadway, cabs and minis and buses, a buzz  
of activity everywhere, the sounds of laughter filtering through the  
thin glass. Light shone in, illuminating the dust in the heavy air,  
swirling in the sunlight. 

Beneath the window, a desk. A trail of cigarette smoke that curled  
up into the brightness. The room was thick with it, and it hung in  
the air like ghosts. 

Over the noise of the street, two women laughing two stories down,  
the sound of scissors, and the rustling of newspaper. Methodical,  
slow sounds of cutting. The hand that held the scissors trembled  
slightly, trying to make a straight line along the edges of the  
article, around the picture, already going yellow from sitting on the  
desk in the sunlight. 

Beside the newspapers, a highball glass filled with scotch, the ice  
melting. The room smelled like the strong liquid, like the smoke, the  
stale smells of a pub. 

The man holding the scissors finished cutting around the picture  
that accompanied the article, the picture of another man, heavily  
bandaged, holding a handful of tiny roses against his face. The man  
in the picture's visible eye was clenched closed, a blanket of  
flowers obscuring most the rest of the his body. A blanket on the  
dark shape of a coffin. 

The man put the scissors down, held the article up, read the  
headline for the hundredth time. 

"No Leads in the Death of FBI Agent in Washington D.C. Car Bombing."

The man did not read the article itself again. At this point, he had  
it memorized. Instead, he lay the article down and picked up his  
glass, taking a long swallow of the amber whiskey, enjoying the burn  
down his throat. The feeling reminded him he was alive at all. 

He pushed his long hair from his face, ran a hand over his dark, too-  
long beard. He took a drag off the cigarette, and breathed out into  
the cool, stale air. 

The phone sat beside him on the desk. He took one long look at the  
picture of the man again, at the tiny lines of text beneath it. Then,  
seeming to come to some decision, he picked up the phone and dialed a  
number from memory. 

"Scotland Yard," a woman's voice said. "Your extension?"

"Simon Davis," the man said, his voice sounding hoarse and overused.  
Though he had not, in fact, spoken for what felt like days. 

"Connecting you now," the prim voice replied, and there was a click. 

The man waited, nursing his scotch and his cigarette in equal turns.  
Then the line was picked up, and Simon Davis said his name.

"Simon," the man said. "Been a long time."

A beat of silence, then: "A surprise hearing from you, Ed. How are  
you? What have you been up to?"

"Well enough," the man said, responding to the first question. To  
the second he said: "Going to the country house, foxhunting. The  
usual fare." 

Davis barely managed a laugh, but it sounded forced. "Yeah, that  
would be you," he said. A pause. "You're calling for a reason. This  
can't be just to chat, after all this time." 

The man pushed his hair back again, leaned forward, his eyes on the  
wall in front of him. "It's beginning again."

Another pause from Davis. "I don't know what you mean," he evaded,  
and it was so clearly a dodge that the man smiled. 

"Been reading the paper," he said. "I'm sure you have been, too. And  
I'd wager a guess that there's been a call for me. Am I right?"

"You're drunk," Davis said by way of answer. "You're even slurring.  
I see some things haven't changed." 

"Am I *right*?" the man enunciated carefully, keeping his voice  
level. 

"You're right," Davis said after a beat. "The FBI." 

"And you didn't give my number," the man stated. "You shouldn't have  
done that."

"Ed, we all decided a long time ago it was time for this to stop for  
you. You decided yourself it was time to stop. That's why you let  
things go the way you did. That's why you went. And all that's over  
now anyway. They've got the wrong idea. Wrong people." 

"No, they don't," He heard the slur himself this time, though he  
didn't put the glass down. "The Americans have got the right idea."  
He paused, looking at the wall. "It's starting all over again." 

A shifting, as though Davis had switched ears. "Ed, no one's going  
to believe you. Not with how you left. You shouldn't be involved  
anymore. You have to know that." 

"NO one knows these people the way I do. NO one." His voice rose.  
"Don't bloody well tell me you don't believe that." 

"No, you're right," Davis said. "No one does. But you've had enough.  
You had enough 10 years ago, and you kept on. Time to lay it down.  
Quit reading the paper. It doesn't concern you anymore."

The man considered this for a long moment, his eyes still on the  
wall. 

"Call him back and give him my number," he said. 

"Ed--"

"Call him, Simon." He had grown very still, and the silence that  
followed stilled him even more. 

"You want your crusade?" Davis said, his voice a cross between  
exasperation and sadness. "All right then. I'll call them. I just  
hope you know what you're doing, getting back into this. I hope  
you're up for it." 

And Davis hung up. 

Ed Renahan sat back in the chair, its springs squeaking in protest  
at the movement, and lay the phone down on its cradle, his eyes  
scanning the wall.

It was layered with photographs, with newspaper clippings. Dozens of  
them neatly pinned and yellowing in the light. Pictures of bodies,  
pictures of men. 

At the center, he looked into the face of one man in particular,  
staring at the camera with his blue eyes, a scar down his face. Owen  
Curran, aware even at the moment the clandestine photo was taken he  
was being watched. 

Renahan stared into the face for a long moment, sipped from his  
glass. His cigarette had long since burned to ash. 

Finally he stood, picked up two gold pins from the pile on the  
corner of the desk. He reached the clipping of the man and the  
flowers, lifting it carefully, though he staggered a bit as he leaned  
forward. 

He pinned the clipping carefully on the wall beside Owen Curran's  
picture, said the name from the caption in his mind, trying it on for  
size as he drained his glass, the ice cubes tinkling. 

Fox Mulder...

So strange.

Renahan surveyed the clippings, staring into this man Mulder's face,  
settling on it. 

He poured himself another drink.

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO   
9:16 a.m.

 

The two had walked in silence the entire mile to Victor Hosteen's  
ranch, Sean trailing slightly behind Albert Hosteen, though the old  
man had slowed several times to allow the boy to catch up so that  
they ended up, at times, walking side by side. 

Hosteen noted that Sean kept his eyes on the ground, his hands  
jammed in the pockets of the jacket that Mulder had just bought him  
at the Target in Farmington a few days before, the boy and his aunt  
and the baby seeming to have few belongings of their own, and nothing  
for the cold mornings in the desert here in early spring. Mulder had  
bought Sean an Arizona Cardinal's jacket, a gaudy shock of red on  
white, but it looked warm enough, and Hosteen was pleased by this. 

Hosteen kept his face forward, but he caught Sean looking up at him  
from time to time out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look  
directly back. He didn't want to frighten him any more than he had  
to, and Sean was clearly already afraid of him. This troubled  
Hosteen, but did not surprise him. 

He'd spent several afternoons on the porch this week in his chair  
with his pipe, thinking about the boy, about Sean's life. 

Now it was time to act.

They reached the edge of the property, and Hosteen could see the men  
all gathered in the corral, Victor riding the high fence of it,  
shouting orders down at the others. 

He noticed immediately, too, that Mulder was not there, and again,  
he was not surprised. 

"Grandfather!" Victor called, catching sight of the two of them. He  
hopped down from the fence in a cloud of dust, brushing the sand from  
his jeans. He smiled down at Sean. 

"Hello, Sean," he said gently, his smile wide. He touched the boy's  
head when Sean said nothing in return. 

"You have what you said you would get for me?" Hosteen asked his  
grandson, and Victor nodded. 

"Yes," he said. "The barn." He jerked his jaw in that direction, and  
Hosteen quirked a small smile in appreciation, put his hand on Sean's  
shoulder. 

"Come," he said, and led Sean away toward the barn. 

It was an old barn, the wood so faded it was almost gray. The wide  
doors were open, and the air smelled of oat and hay. Several birds  
startled up as Hosteen led Sean into the building, going toward a pen  
in the back. 

Sean seemed to hang back again, and Hosteen stopped, turned to him. 

"Come and see," he said in his gentlest voice. "You will like it. I  
promise." 

Sean eyed him, cocked his head, his hands still in his pockets. 

"Trust," Hosteen said. "Just a little trust." And he held out his  
hand.

Sean hesitated, but then slowly started forward toward the pen. 

Hosteen leaned on the low railing, looked in, and Sean came up  
beside him, looked into the enclosure, as well. 

An appaloosa pony stood there, chewing lazily on a bit of straw, its  
eyes half closed. Its mane reached well below its neck, its black and  
white tail swishing softly. 

It opened its eyes and looked at the two of them with its brown eyes. 

Sean's hands came out of his pockets and went around the boards of  
the pen, his face pressing over the top. 

Hosteen smiled to himself. It was the most reaction he'd seen from  
Sean in a week, since he'd reacted so strongly to seeing Hosteen  
himself. 

But this was very different. This wasn't fear. This was something  
else entirely. 

"This," he said softly, "is to be yours while you are here." 

Sean turned and looked up at him, his eyes wide. He blinked, and  
Hosteen had to keep the smile from blooming on his face at the  
reaction. He remained stoic, serious. "A lot to take care of," he  
said, shaking his head. 

Sean blinked again, looking from the pony back to Hosteen. He licked  
his lips in what Hosteen recognized as a nervous gesture, and also  
one of something else. 

Sean wanted the pony. Very badly. It was emanating from him so  
clearly that to Hosteen it was like the boy, so dark, was giving off  
a low light. 

"Do you think you can take care of the pony while you are here?" he  
said, his voice quiet. "Come down here every day. Feed him. Care for  
his pen. Care for tack if I give it to you to use. Do you think you  
can do that?" 

Sean looked at the pony for another long few seconds, then back up  
at Hosteen. 

He nodded. 

And Hosteen smiled, though he hid it quickly. 

"All right," he said, crossing his arms. "The first thing you must  
do it come up with a name. He does not have a name. That will be your  
first job. The naming." 

Sean looked at him, licked his lips again. He shook his head "no."

"You can do it," Hosteen said, put a hand on Sean's unruly reddish  
hair, smoothing it down. "And then we will go from there." 

For once, Sean did not tense when Hosteen touched him. He held  
still, his eyes wide and frightened, but bright.

 

*******

11:10 a.m.

 

She set off into the desert. 

The sun was climbing, a great white light, as Scully left Hosteen in  
the house, watching a History Channel program on the destruction of  
Pompeii, the plaster casts of figures too much for her, too much like  
burned bodies in their glass cases, the feeling augmented by  
Hosteen's curl of pipe smoke from the other side of the room. 

When she'd risen to leave, only his eyes had flicked toward her, his  
hand on his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and she'd looked back,  
saying nothing, and left the house. 

Now on the trail that led off the property in the back, she walked  
slowly, a hand resting on her belly. It was warming up, the desert  
going a touch green in the dawning springtime, tiny purple flowers  
among the brush. Mostly, though, the land was the color of buckskin,  
and reflected the harsh light, making her squint against it as she  
stared down at the ground. 

She stepped on hoofprints leading to and from the house, deep Us in  
the ground, Ghost's footprints. Or so she imagined. She remembered so  
vividly sitting on the gray horse, the sun going down, all that time  
ago, almost drowsing on his back as she'd come in from the desert,  
her demons burned down with the fire she'd left so far in the  
distance the night before she'd ridden back to Hosteen's home. 

She was chasing demons again this time. But they were not her own. 

Instinct. That's what she was following. It was like following a  
thread, the one that connected her to him. 

She walked for what felt like a long time, the structure behind her  
disappearing in the distance, the only sounds her footsteps, her  
breath. She tired easily, and the walk seemed very long. 

Then she saw it in the distance. A white shape, the trailer she'd  
stayed in so long ago. She could see from where she was that the door  
was open. 

The firepit was filled with charred logs, burned to white. The same  
chairs sat outside it, and it looked just as old and tired as it had  
then. Just as private. It was this latter sense of the place that  
made her stop at the open door and tap lightly on the metal side. 

"Mulder?" she called softly, her voice sounding loud in all the  
quiet. Only wind answered her for a few seconds, sand billowing in  
the breeze. Then, over it, she heard her name, then his soft voice  
telling her to come in. 

She climbed the steps carefully, the trailer creaking with even her  
slight weight. The room she entered smelled of bacon grease and dust. 

Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, the same as he had when she'd  
awoken that morning, before they'd made love, his back that same  
curve, his elbows on his knees. He drew himself up as he turned his  
face from where it faced forward, staring at the window, and looked  
at her with his dark eyes. 

He looked older to her somehow. The set of his face. 

She said nothing, simply closed the space between them, moving to  
stand in front of him. He parted his knees a bit wider and reached  
out, his hands on the small of her back, and drew her forward a step  
to stand between them. Her hands went to the back of his neck and he  
leaned forward, his forehead on her collarbone. She heard him breathe  
out a sigh, but it did not sound like relief.

She stroked his hair in the silence that followed. Bo, on the floor  
in the corner, watched them with his wet eyes, looking as worried as  
she felt. 

Mulder's grip on her tightened, his hands going to her shoulder  
blades. His legs closed around her thighs with a gentle pressure, and  
his head began to move side to side, his mouth brushing her breasts  
through the material of her shirt. 

She felt the urgency growing in him, urgent like the morning when  
he'd kissed her, his hands pulling her tight against his face. His  
mouth opened and she felt his teeth graze her nipple. 

That was when she put her hands on either side of his face, stilling  
him, gently urging his face up so she could look into his eyes again. 

She shook her head. No.

He met her eyes, as if looking for rebuke, and she knew he found  
none. Finally he nodded, and returned his forehead to her sternum,  
still now, her hands bracketing his head.

"Mulder," she said into the silence. "I know."

He breathed out another sigh. "No," he said softly. "You don't."

"Yes," she replied, nodding, though he couldn't see it. She stared  
out the window into the desert beyond, steeling herself for the words  
she didn't want to speak, but had to speak. And then she said them.

"You have to leave." 

He looked up at her again, and now when she nodded to him, he did  
see. He seemed surprised. 

"I can't leave you," he said. "Not like this." His eyes took in her  
belly, and he shook his head. 

"I'm safe here," she said quietly. " And the baby and I are both  
fine." 

"But--"

She shook her head. "I can feel it. You can feel it. You can't stay  
here. Not this time. This time is different."

"Scully--"

She held his gaze. "Mulder, you can't change who you are," she said  
firmly, though her voice was heavy. "I don't *want* you to change.  
Not even for me. It's eating away at you. I can feel how conflicted  
you are. You want to stay to protect me, and you want to leave to  
protect me, and you don't know which is the right thing to do."

He nodded. "Yes." 

She stroked the hair at his temples. "You know which is the thing  
you need to do for *you.* And this is a time when I want that to be  
what you listen to."

He swallowed. "You sound like you want me to go," he said, his voice  
sad. 

She shook her head. "No," she said. "No." And now her eyes burned,  
welling. "I don't ever want to be away from you. You have to know  
that by now." 

She took in the room, the desolate space, remembered herself, alone,  
on the same mattress, how empty she'd felt as she'd watched the sun  
through the windows for those weeks, learning to listen for the sound  
of hooves, learning to come back to herself and, eventually, to him. 

He was watching her as she looked around, and seemed to know what  
she was feeling, because he nodded. Here he was coming back to  
himself, as well. 

"Scully, I..." His hands came down and around now, stroking her  
waist, his thumbs on the sides of her abdomen. "I keep  
thinking...about Rose."

"Tell me," she murmured. 

She looked at him, waiting, knowing he would speak when he found the  
words, and she wanted to hear them.

He looked down. "I don't know if I can tell you what the idea of  
being a father has done to me. I think about...the life I want her to  
have, that I want us to have with her." 

He met her gaze again, and she saw the beginning of tears.

"I feel...like the rest of my life was to get me ready for what I've  
built with you. The life we'll have with her. And someone's taking  
that away from me, from us. I want that life back. More than  
anything, I want it back. I'll do anything to protect it."

She stroked at his temples, feeling something both harden and soften  
within her. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and firm.

"Then take that life back." 

He shook his head, resisting. "I don't want you to be alone," he  
replied. "I can't stand to think of leaving you." 

She nodded. "I know. But Mulder, sometimes...to protect the things  
we love, we have do things that we don't want to do. Sometimes to  
protect we have to hide, and sometimes we have to fight." 

She watched his face, the resolve dawning in it as she continued.  
"For the life we have, for Rose, I'm willing to hide, even though  
it's not what I want." 

She leaned forward, kissed his forehead, watched his eyes flutter  
closed, his lashes wet. 

"And you..." she said. "You know what you have to do. For her. For  
me. And for yourself." 

She leaned down, his eyes opening. She kissed him, pulled back  
enough to meet his intense gaze. 

"Fight," she whispered fiercely. "Fight."

 

***********

FBI HEADQUARTERS   
WASHINGTON, D.C.   
12:16 p.m.

 

The phone was ringing now, the strange double rings of a European  
phone line. Skinner listened to the static playing on the line and  
hoped the connection would be all right as he looked at Granger  
sitting in the chair across from him. Granger had a phone up to his  
ear, as well, another phone on the same extension, his ankle on his  
knee, but his clenched hands in his lap belying the younger man's  
tension. That and the set of his eyes, his brows squinted down. 

They were gambling here on the only lead they had. The man from  
Scotland Yard who'd called, Davis, had made it seem uncertain,  
evading questions about this Renahan, his status. His state. Davis  
had simply given out the phone number and hurried off the line as  
though he were late for a date. 

The phone continued to ring. Five times. Six. 

Then it was picked up, the sound of fumbling, then a very British  
accent. A tired voice full of breath.

"Yeah...Renahan..."

Skinner's eye met Granger's as he spoke, as Granger listened.

"Mr. Renahan, this is Assistant Director Walter Skinner from the FBI  
in Washington. I got your number from--"

"From Davis, yes," Renahan said, more clearly now. He sounded  
groggy, but was coming around.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, sir," Skinner said. "If you were  
asleep. I know it's later there and--" 

"No, no," the other voice hurried in. "Just...resting." He cleared  
his throat. "FBI, you say?"

"Yes," Skinner said, leaning on his desk. "I'm calling--"

"You're calling about the bombs. The ones there in Washington." 

Skinner grew still, as did Granger. 

"Yes," Skinner said softly. "I assume Mr. Davis spoke to you about  
my inquiry and--"

"No, Davis didn't tell me. I knew already. Reading the papers and  
such." The man cleared his throat again. His accent was as thick as  
his deep voice, and just as rich.

"Ah, I see," Skinner said. "Mr. Renahan, I'm calling because--"

"Because you've got an Irish problem on your hands," Renahan  
interrupted. Skinner thought he heard a slight slur now, more than  
fatigue. "A Path problem, I think. Going after that agent of yours,  
the woman who was killed. The woman who got Owen Curran killed. Or so  
some may think."

"You sound sure of all that," Skinner said, and saw Granger lean  
forward slightly in his chair, his eyebrows climbing, the phone  
pressed to his ear.

"Oh, I'm sure all right," Renahan replied. His voice was far away,  
almost monotone. "I know these people. Better than they know  
themselves. I know the things they would do, and revenge is the one  
thing that's been driving them these past years since the peace. It  
holds them together, those that are still holding together. Revenge  
against each other, against people doing too much talking, for  
starters. And then revenge against anyone who cost them. Your agent  
cost some of them a lot." 

Skinner listened to the strange tenor in the man's voice, the  
certainty in it. The weariness.

"We agree with your assessment, of course," Skinner said.

"And what is it that makes *you* so sure of it, Mr. Skinner?"  
Renahan asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Why not the usual  
suspects?" 

"Anyone else would want to simply terrorize," Skinner replied. "This  
was very calculated. Two bombs where Agent Scully was in close  
proximity, one in her car. It's too much of a coincidence."

"You're right," the other man said. "It is. But there's something  
else, some other reason you're not saying." 

Definitely a slur there. Skinner pursed his lips, looked at Granger.  
Granger heard it, too. Skinner could see it on his face. He nodded to  
Skinner, his assessment of the other man telling him to tell Skinner  
to talk. Skinner nodded back. 

"We have Mae Curran," he said. 

A pause. "Mae Curran is alive?" 

"Yes, and in our custody. There was another bombing, this one in  
Australia where she was hiding with her husband and daughter and Owen  
Curran's son. Her husband was killed." 

"Another car bomb."

"Yes." 

A longer beat of silence. Skinner and Granger waited, exchanging a  
look. 

"It's not mainstream IRA," Renahan said at last. An edge had entered  
his voice, some energy. "None of them would go after Mae. Must be  
some Path left somewhere, though I'd thought they were all dead. That  
drug business and a few hits. There weren't many to begin with." 

Granger nodded to Skinner, urging him to continue, which he did.

"She gave us a name of a contact here in the States. He's the one  
who gave us your name. This man seemed to think that it has some  
connection to John Fagan, since both Mae and Agent Scully were  
implicated in his death." 

"'The Bogey Man' himself," Renahan said, dark amusement in his  
voice. "He was on the Nutting Squad before he turned up with the  
Currans. Used to police the IRA. I'm not sure of that, but that's  
what I suspect...one of the worst, that one. The worst sort..." He  
trailed off, as though thinking. 

Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Renahan, we're prepared to  
fly you to the States and compensate you for consulting with us on  
the case."

A silence. Then Renahan did something that neither Skinner nor  
Granger expected. 

He laughed. 

"You think the people doing this are still in the States?" he said.  
"No, Mr. Skinner. Whoever did this will run home as fast as he can,  
his job done there. If he's looking for Mae, he'll do it from home,  
not look for her there. They never stay away from even their  
hometowns for long over there. It's not their way. That's why this  
couldn't be IRA in the first place. They'd never strike that far from  
home. Path, yes. IRA, no." 

"So what would you suggest would be the best course of action at  
this juncture?" Skinner said, treading carefully. "You say you know  
these people, and I believe you do. What should we do?"

Renahan drew in a breath. "You want to find the Irish, Mr. Skinner?  
You come to Ireland." 

Skinner looked at Granger, who looked surprised. 

"Surely we could have local authorities look into the matter--"

But Renahan laughed again. 

"This is your fight, Mr. Skinner. No Irish police are going to help  
you protect Mae Curran, and they could give bloody hell about your  
agent, as well. You'll have to come yourself. As for me, I'll meet  
you there. I've got a lot of contacts. Even now. People who might do  
some talking. We'll crawl through it together." 

Skinner considered this, thinking over his options. Granger seemed  
to be doing the same thing, and he was nodding.

"I'll go," Granger mouthed. 

Skinner thought about it. About Mulder and Scully at the Hosteen's.  
About the silent boy and the blonde baby he'd seen playing on the  
floor. 

He thought about the other agents who had died. Glickman. The  
others. All those people at the hotel. The restaurant.

Finally, Skinner nodded. "All right," he said. "I'll come see what  
you have to show me. Me and another member of the FBI."

"Who's that then?" Renahan asked immediately. 

"A civilian working with the Bureau. A profiler named Paul Granger." 

"The black bloke?" Renahan replied after a beat. 

Skinner and Granger exchanged surprised looks. 

"Yes, he's black," Skinner said, puzzled and a bit peeved. "How did  
you know--?"

"Because I'm looking at his picture right now. Standing next to you.  
I'm looking at your picture." 

Skinner's eyes widened, and he leaned forward. "I see," he said  
noncommitedly. 

He reached for a pen, scribbled something on a pad on his desk, held  
it up for Granger to see. 

It said: "Medical Leave, my ass." 

Granger smirked, nodding.

"Granger can't come," Renahan said firmly. "Nothing personal against  
him, mind you, but he'd draw too much attention to us. Stand out too  
much. Bring someone else if you have to." 

"There's no one else to bring," Skinner said, putting the pad down.  
"I'll come alone then."

"What about this agent's husband, this...Agent Mulder. How bad is he  
hurt? Can he travel?" 

"No, he can't," Skinner said immediately.

"A shame, that," Renahan said softly. "He would be good to have  
along. Makes it personal for the people we'll meet. The grieving  
husband and all that. Personal in a way they can understand." 

"He can't come," Skinner replied firmly. "It'll just be me. We'll  
coordinate the local authorities as we need them, whether they want  
to do it or not."

Renahan sighed. "All right," he said. "I'll go to Belfast. I'll be  
there tomorrow, and I'll start some looking around. When can you meet  
me?"

Skinner considered. "Give me a couple of days to put things on hold  
here so I can get away. I'll come on Friday."

"Go to The Hanged Man, a pub. I'll be staying in one of the rooms  
over it. You can find me there."

"Mr. Renahan," Skinner jumped in, hearing the dismissal in Renahan's  
tone. "I have to ask...your status with Scotland Yard..."

"That's got nothing to do with this, Mr. Skinner," the other man  
replied, a touch of anger in his voice. "You'll have to take me as I  
come. Those are my terms for helping you. Agreed?"

Granger looked at Skinner again. After a beat, he angled his head. 

Take the terms, he said with his eyes, and Skinner gnawed his lip,  
but nodded. 

"Agreed," he said. 

And Renahan hung up. 

Granger leaned forward, replaced the phone on the cradle on the edge  
of the desk. Skinner did the same with his own, then took his glasses  
off, rubbing at his eyes. 

"Jesus Christ," he said, still rubbing. "What the hell have I  
stepped in this time?"

"Whatever it is," Granger replied, "it certainly has a stink." 

Skinner replaced his glasses, pinned the other man with his eyes.  
"I'm so sorry you can't go with me," he said sardonically. "I mean  
after all, who would want to pass this up? A trip to Ireland to go  
pub crawling with some crazy sonofabitch wash-up cop." He shook his  
head. 

"You said you'd do what you had to do to get to the bottom of this,"  
Granger said quietly. "That's what you told Rosen this morning. This  
is the only lead we've got. And crazy or not, everything he said made  
sense. He knows this case. He knows these people." 

"He was drunk!" Skinner exclaimed, waving at the phone as if to shoo  
it away.

"Yes, but he was RIGHT," Granger replied firmly. 

Skinner looked down. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he was. God help me." 

Granger rose from his seat. "I'm going to do some more looking, see  
what I can scare up about this guy with the boys from  
Counterterrorism. And I'll call Mulder. Tell him what we've got."

Skinner stood, as well. "I'm heading up to Rosen to get cleared for  
this. It's going to take some string-pulling to make all this look  
neat. It's damned irregular. All of it."

Granger smiled. "He'll make it look all right. Even he knows this is  
all we've got."

Skinner watched him go, listened to the soft close of the door  
behind him. 

He stood for a long time, looked around his office, thinking,  
letting it all sink in. 

The picture of Ashcroft... 

The shelves of books...

The silver pen on the blotter... 

The two empty chairs in front of the desk. 

He wiped his hand over his bald pate, a bitter laugh coming. 

"Ireland..." he said ruefully. "Shit..." And he shook his head again. 

 

**********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO   
2:21 p.m.

 

Mulder sat before the flickering television, news streaming by on  
MSNBC, a can of Coke in his hand. It was warming up in the house, and  
he was glad for this, considering how cold the room had been in the  
morning. It would be warmer in the bedroom now, warmer for Scully,  
who'd lain down with Bo for a nap. 

They'd spent awhile after their talk walking the desert behind the  
trailer, walking holding hands. They rarely did this, and it reminded  
him of something they would do on a date, had they ever really dated.  
The thought made him smile a bittersweet smile, the memory of her  
small hand in his, then his arm over her shoulder, her body pressed  
against his as they'd walked. 

He'd felt himself beginning to both knot and unknot as he'd walked  
with her, feeling simultaneously better and somehow worse as they'd  
gone further away from the house. They'd spoken little, words seeming  
unnecessary. 

They'd stopped and kissed for a long time at the foot of a steep  
rise, then turned and went back the way they'd come, Scully looking  
tired. He was relieved he hadn't had to urge her toward a nap once  
they'd returned to the empty house.

Now the screen door creaked open and the wooden door swung in,  
admitting Albert Hosteen, looking a bit windblown, his long hair over  
his shoulders and a knowing look on his face.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, taking a swig of his soda, trying to appear  
nonchalant. 

Hosteen regarded him for a long moment, glancing down the hallway  
toward where Scully lay asleep. 

"Hm," Hosteen said, nodding. 

"What?" Mulder asked.

"You are leaving," Hosteen said.

Mulder didn't know why he was surprised, but he was. 

"Yes," he said after a beat. "I'm going back to Washington. I made  
the reservations a little while ago."

Hosteen smiled gently. "A hard decision for you, I know. For both of  
you. But the right thing for you to do." 

Mulder nodded, looked down, feeling exposed. "Yes," he said. "It  
was. It is." 

Hosteen entered the room now, took his seat in the corner, where he  
always sat, his pipe and tobacco on a small TV table by the chair's  
worn upholstered arm. 

"I do not need to tell you that everything will be done to keep her  
safe here," he said, picking up the pipe. 

Mulder shook his head, smiled faintly. "No, you don't need to tell  
me that. I know you'll do everything you can. I know she's safe here.  
That's one of the reasons I know it's all right for me to go." 

Hosteen stuffed the pipe, tapping the tobacco down with his  
calloused thumb. "The time alone will be good for her, as well. She  
has some things to think on, I should think." He lit the pipe. 

Mulder remembered Katherine in the kitchen, the splatter of grease,  
the child's surprised cry. Scully's voice as she'd withdrawn from  
them all. He'd seen Hosteen's face when she left, seen the look on  
the old man's face. 

He knew. About the visions and the dreams. 

Mulder swallowed. "Yes," he said again. "Yes, she does." 

Sweet-smelling smoke drifted toward him, riding the light coming in  
the window. The room now seemed very warm. 

The phone rang, and Hosteen pushed himself up, going for the phone  
in the kitchen. Mulder watched him go, still thinking about Scully,  
Hosteen knowing. What it all meant, or could mean...

"Agent Mulder," Hosteen said from the kitchen. He held the receiver  
out toward Mulder. "It is Paul Granger. For you." 

Mulder rose, feeling a rush of nerves. He hadn't called to tell them  
he was returning. He didn't know what they would say. 

He met Hosteen in the kitchen, the two men passing as Hosteen handed  
off the phone. 

"Granger," Mulder said softly.

"Mulder, how's Scully?" Granger replied. 

"She's okay," Mulder said. "She's asleep. I think it's going to take  
a little more time."

"I hope so. Are you ready for this?"

Mulder felt his nerves go up another notch. "What? What have you  
got?" 

He listened intently as Granger relayed the conversation with  
Renahan, the things the man had said, the way he'd seemed. Mulder  
found himself tensing the more he heard, the more pieces began to  
fall into place in the puzzle they'd been trying to put together,  
pieces Renahan and -- just today -- Mae were providing. 

A lot of pieces still missing. 

"....so Skinner got cleared this afternoon to go to Belfast, to work  
with this guy with his contacts there. He's leaving on Friday morning  
first thing. Rosen told him to go this afternoon." 

"You're going with him, I assume?"

"No," Granger said softly. "Apparently I can't pass for anyone's  
'cousin Seamus,' so Renahan wants me to stay away. I'm disappointed,  
but I understand." 

Mulder stood still, thinking. 

He knew what he had to do.

"Tell Skinner..." he said, his voice quiet. "Tell him I'm coming  
with him." 

The silence he expected. 

"What?" Granger said at last. "You're not serious." 

"I am," Mulder replied. "Scully and I spent the morning talking  
about it. I was coming back to D.C. anyway, to help out any way I  
could. Now I know how I'm going to do that." 

Another silence, this one not expected. He wondered for a moment if  
Granger was going to try to talk him out of it. 

What he *did* say took Mulder completely off guard.

"Then I'm going to come out there," Granger said softly. "Help watch  
over things." 

Mulder stood still, watching Hosteen watching him. A puff of smoke  
came out of the corner of the elder man's lips, obscuring his face  
except for his eyes.

"I can't ask you to do that," Mulder said after a beat. 

"You didn't ask me," Granger replied. "I'm offering. There needs to  
be at least two people there, another gun." 

"But to leave Robin like that..." Mulder tried.

"She can come out and stay for a little while. She'll understand.  
Dana is her friend, too. She'll want her as protected as I do."

"Granger, I..." Mulder trailed off. He didn't know what to say.  
Granger was his friend. Scully's friend. Mulder couldn't have asked  
for the help, but he appreciated it more than he could say. 

"I know," Granger replied. "You don't have to say anything. I just  
want to do what little I can." 

"I..." Mulder tried again. Then he let out a breath, and said the  
only words he could think of. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Granger replied. "I'll come as fast as I can. And  
I'll tell Skinner you're on your way." 

Mulder looked at Hosteen as he hung up the phone. He started to  
speak but couldn't.

And Hosteen, puffing on his pipe, smiled.

 

*******

SOUTHWEST AIRLINES   
FLIGHT 1359   
SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST   
MARCH 17  
11:31 a.m.

 

He was seated over the silver wing, enough a view over its rounded  
edge to see the landscape below the plane, thousands of feet down,  
the burnt tan ground of the desert finally giving way to some green  
now, the circular farms of Kansas or Nebraska, boxes of roads around  
the farmland, too high to make out anything but the green, and the  
clear blue of the sky around the plane, dotted with high thin clouds  
that streamed by the wing. 

The plane was fairly silent, everyone reading or watching the film  
on the small screens that had swung down from the ceilings, things  
blowing up on the tiny monitors. He had no headset, so he couldn't  
hear the sounds, and for that he was thankful. Instead, he'd aimed  
his face out the window, watching, ignoring even the flight  
attendants with their drink and food carts, his tray table down on  
his lap but empty. 

He looked like any other traveler, he supposed. Worn jeans, a long-  
sleeved white T shirt to chase away the plane's persistent chill. His  
jeans jacket was balled beneath the seat in front of him. He had a  
suitcase in the overhead, a duffle of T-shirts and more jeans, his  
boots. The rest of his clothes were in the cargo hold beneath.

He would not unpack the bags when he arrived in Washington. They  
would go straight onto another plane that night, bound for Ireland. 

Only one article of his clothing had remained behind at the  
Hosteen's -- his Yankee's sweatshirt, faded blue and the team's  
insignia worn off the front. He'd left it because Scully had put it  
on when he'd left the shower that morning, laying claim to it, her  
hands vanishing in the sleeves, the rest of it pulled over her bare  
body to her hips. The blankets covered the rest of her, making her  
look small beneath the covers, lonely on the full-sized bed. 

She'd watched him dress, put the last of his things into his  
suitcase -- his shaving kit, a bottle of shampoo. Her eyes followed  
him as he moved around the room, but she said nothing, her hands,  
within the sweatshirt, curled in front of her face, hiding everything  
but the bridge of her nose and her wide blue eyes. 

Her eyes...

There on the plane, he closed his own eyes, remembering how they  
looked as the sun had begun to come up, him on his back, Scully  
astride him, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands on his waist as  
she moved, her hips pushing, his own rising and falling beneath her  
in a careful rhythm. He'd watched a bead of sweat travel down between  
her full breasts, watched it as it moved down her chest and over the  
rise of her belly. He'd reached out then, smoothing it over the mound  
with his thumb, his hand stroking over the baby, then down between  
her legs, teasing through the curls there, feeling where their bodies  
were joined, the heat. 

So much he wanted to say to her. So much. Words seemed meaningless  
in the face of what he wanted to convey. The goodbye he needed to  
say, a word he had never been good at saying, and had never said to  
her this way. 

So, he met her eyes, listened to her breath, his own labored,  
answering hers. He clenched a hand around her hip, guiding her, and  
said goodbye with his body instead. 

No sound but their breath in the quiet of the house. 

He bit down on his lip as the pleasure began to build in him, her  
own body stiffening, her head back, her hair against her shoulders,  
damp strands of red. 

When he came, he pulled her forward, draping her small frame over  
his, her hands on his shoulders as their lips met and held. He tasted  
her, the sweetness of her mouth, the warmth of her like bread. He  
swore he could feel her everywhere -- in the battering of his heart  
against his chest, the tingle in his belly, the lingering of all  
they'd made. 

It was over too quickly for him, but it was enough. He'd said what  
he needed to say. Once he'd situated her on the bed beside him, he  
kissed her once more and sat up, on the edge of the bed, gathered his  
sweatpants, and headed from the room to rest of the house, which  
smelled of dust. 

His eyes burned as he looked into the sunlight out the airplane's  
thick window, the sun streaming in onto his body, warm.

Warm as her hand on his thigh as he'd finished dressing, the  
suitcases by the door. Her eyes were still on his, though she said  
nothing. The mattress dipped, creaking, as he sat on the edge of it,  
in the curve of her where she lay on her side facing him, and her  
hand slid up onto his back. 

"I'll see you," he'd said, forcing the weakest of smiles, which she  
did not return. Instead, she sat up to meet his lips again, and he  
expected, when he pulled away, to see tears. There were none, her  
head bowed against his chest. 

"Try to go back to sleep," he whispered, and angled her back down on  
the bed. "I don't want you to get up and watch me go. I want to  
remember you here. Like this." 

She nodded, settling back down on the pillow, the sweatshirt  
swallowing her. Dutifully, she closed her eyes, let out a shaking  
breath. 

He'd leaned down then, lifting the sweatshirt slightly to get to her  
skin, cupped the baby between his hands. He pressed a long kiss to  
the center of her belly, rubbed it with his cheek, her hand on the  
back of his head, moving through his hair. 

Then a kiss on her forehead. 

No goodbyes. 

He went for the door, Bo rising from his place on the rug to follow  
him as he went for the suitcases. He reached down and touched the  
dog's soft head, stroked back a long ear. 

"Stay," he said softly. "Stay." 

The dog whined softly in return, looking uncertain, but he obeyed.

Then he was out the door with his bags to where Victor Hosteen  
waited in his pickup to take him to Farmington, the truck rumbling  
faintly, puffing out steam into the morning air. 

There on the plane, he closed his eyes again, let out a breath. The  
picture of her on the bed was burned into his memory, the way she'd  
turned her head into the pillow as he'd gone out the door, her hair  
curtaining her face. 

That was what he'd take with him, to what already felt like light-  
years away. 

He looked out at the wing, the silver of it slicing through the high  
thin air. He pictured the jet-trail, white cloud of motion,  
stretching, pulling thin, leaving everything he had and loved on the  
burnt ground behind him.

 

****

WASHINGTON DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT   
OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, D.C.  
3:32 p.m.

 

"Hey there, Papa."

Mulder turned from where he'd been hefting his suitcase off the  
baggage carousel to find Frohike standing behind him, his black  
leather jacket and rumpled black jeans and shirt making him look like  
an aged Black Sabbath fan just in from a concert. The two-days growth  
of beard didn't help the look much. Nor did the fingerless gloves. 

Mulder felt his lip curl at the greeting, which Frohike returned, a  
wan smile that did not touch his eyes. 

"Frohike," Mulder replied, lifting the bag. Frohike reached down and  
took the smaller one, threw it over his slight shoulder. 

"Come on," the short man said, gesturing toward the door. "The van's  
out front. Langley's been circling. Too cheap to park." 

"Thanks," Mulder said, and followed him out through the throng of  
people from the afternoon flights. 

"I hope you don't need to go to your house," Frohike said as they  
hit the sliding double doors. "Byers went and checked it out this  
morning. There's still a reporter snooping around there. Sonofabitch  
can't even make a good attempt at hiding himself, either. Sitting  
around in a Channel 8 van right outside the door." 

"No," Mulder said as they came out into the bright sunlight. There  
was a slight nip in the air still. Still early spring. "I've got  
everything I need from the house." He didn't want to say what he  
knew, though -- he didn't want to have to go back there, to his and  
Scully's house and find it so empty, the box with the white-wood crib  
in it leaned up against the wall in the corner of the spare bedroom,  
everything still and quiet.

"We're keeping an eye on it for you," Frohike said, as if reading  
his thoughts, and then he stepped on the curb, waving his gloved hand  
out as a beat-up Volkswagen van came sputtering up along the front of  
the airport, weaving in and out of parked cars. 

Finally it pulled up beside them, the side door sliding open with a  
creak of thin metal on metal. Byers stood there, in his usual suit  
and tie, his neatly trimmed beard, his eyes darting to the sides then  
settling on Mulder, taking in his face.

"You're looking better," he said, reached out and took the  
suitcases, moving them into the back as Mulder and Frohike climbed  
into the van and slid the door shut. 

"Thanks," Mulder said, settling onto a bench seat that had been  
pushed up against the side of the van. He'd forgotten about his face  
completely, the cuts on it, the bruising. He rubbed his hand over it  
as if to wipe them away. "I'm healing up." 

Langley gave him a crooked, friendly smile, then returned his gaze  
to the side-view mirror, revving the van up.

"How's Scully?" Byers asked, his soft voice hedged with concern.  
Frohike was moving around to take the passenger seat, Langley gunning  
the tired engine to merge into the traffic. 

"She's okay," Mulder said, just as quietly. "She's getting around  
now. The ribs aren't bothering her as much, though she's still  
bruised pretty badly." 

"And the sprout?" Frohike asked. 

Mulder smiled despite himself. "Seems to be doing all right. Scully  
says she moves a lot, though I can't feel it yet myself." 

The thought blind-sided him, made him ache. 

Would he ever be able to feel it? He didn't know how long this would  
take, how long he would be gone from her, how much he would miss. The  
thought of not being able to feel his daughter's movements beneath  
his hand as she grew pained him. 

He pushed it away, staring out the window. 

"Granger and Skinner are meeting us back at our place in a couple of  
hours," Frohike said. "Going over what we've found so far. It's taken  
some looking but we've got a few things for you. And we've cooked up  
a little something special."

"What is it?"

The three men exchanged looks, and Frohike turned and winked at  
Mulder. 

"It's a surprise," he said, and he reached over and flicked on the  
van's tape player, The Ramones blaring out of the chintzy speaker,  
drowning out Mulder's reply. 

 

*****

 

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION   
TAKOMA PARK, MARYLAND   
5:46 p.m.

 

Mulder was on the beat-up, over-stuffed couch, straight from a  
thrift store and a recent acquisition, as near as he could figure, a  
piece of pizza in his hand, when the knock came at the door to the  
Gunmen's lair. Frohike, who'd been fiddling with something on the  
nearest computer screen, rose and went to the door, having to stand  
on his tip toes to look through the fish-eye peephole. 

The other two men, more paranoid than Mulder would ever be (for  
which he was thankful), tensed where they were sitting, the soft  
sounds of CCR the only sound in the room for a few seconds as Frohike  
began undoing the many locks on the door. When he swung the thick  
door open onto the alley beyond, Skinner and Granger were standing  
there, both in casual clothes, their jackets open. 

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Mulder said, putting the slice  
down and rising, wiping his hands on the legs of his jeans as he  
reached a hand toward Skinner and Granger, which they both shook.  
Frohike was busying himself with relocking the door after having  
scanned the alley, as though the two men might have been followed. 

"Mulder," Skinner grunted. "You're looking better. I hope Scully's  
made some progress, too." 

"She has," Mulder replied, and noted Granger's wan smile. He was  
holding his arm at the same guarded angle against his side, looking  
stiff.

"Physical therapy today?" he said, and Granger nodded. 

"Yeah," the other man replied. "Didn't go so well, but it's the last  
for awhile, and I'm glad." 

"We haven't got much time," Skinner said, this time to the room.  
"We've got to be cleared to have our guns on the plane, so we've got  
to get there early. Flight leaves at nine."

Mulder was wearing his Sig again, feeling, for the first time in  
awhile, very FBI. He noted Granger was wearing his, as well, as the  
younger man carefully took off his jacket and laid it on the couch,  
his Ruger shining silver in the light. 

"When's your flight?" he asked.

"Same time as yours," Granger replied. "I'm staying the night in  
Albuquerque, then catching the puddle-jumper to Farmington in the  
morning. I'm going straight there from here. I've already said my  
goodbyes." 

Mulder nodded, noted the lilt in Granger's voice at the mention of  
the parting with Robin. He was sorry for it, and said so.

"It's okay," Granger said, waving him off. "She's coming in a little  
while. As soon as she finishes a big case she's working on, a bunch  
of tests to get them caught up. I'll see her soon." He turned to  
Byers and Langley. "You all said you've got something for me?"

"Yes," Byers said. "But let's go over what we have on Renahan before  
we do that." He took a seat at a computer screen, tapped a few keys,  
Langley standing beside him. Frohike stood by the door, his arms  
crossed over his black shirt, his face serious now, almost grave.  
Skinner and Granger sat, Granger on the couch beside Mulder, still  
moving slowly. Skinner took the chair Frohike had vacated when he  
opened the door. 

"We've done some digging through the files at Scotland Yard," Byers  
began. "Some on Owen Curran, trying to find some records of John  
Fagan's activities, and as you probably have guessed, we didn't find  
much." 

"He was a slick bastard," Frohike said. "Greased. Nothing stuck to  
him at all. There are a lot of pictures of him with Curran, and a few  
from before that with some known IRA folks in Belfast, but we  
couldn't find a damn thing on him. He was arrested one time for  
questioning about the death of a suspected IRA member in Newry, but  
the cops didn't seem to care too much about the death of a Provo like  
that, so they let him go. Nothing on his background at all. A street  
address that he gave them, but it's a fake. We checked it out.  
There's no such place." 

"Renahan seems to know a little about him," Skinner said. "Said he  
was a member of something called 'The Nutting Squad'?" 

"Yeah," Langley said, looking up from the screen, the eerie blue of  
the screen reflecting in his horn-rims. "Sort of terrorists within  
the terrorists. They kept the IRA in line with themselves, knocking  
off people who snitched or didn't follow through with what they said  
they were going to do. Kept everything nice and tight. Even the IRA  
was afraid of them."

"The IRA was afraid of The Path, too," Byers joined in. "I'm not  
surprised Fagan went with them when Curran broke off. Anybody in the  
Nutting Squad would be perfect for something a little more radical,  
and I'm not surprised Fagan didn't want any part of the peace." 

"We'll keep digging, see what we can find out," Frohike said. "Our  
guess is that he's using some kind of alias, as I think you're aware.  
Not that surprising. We'll do what we can to find out what his real  
name is, and that will help us possibly figure out who might still be  
out there who might have a grudge."

Mulder nodded. "What about this guy Renahan?" he asked. "What did  
you find out about him?"

"An absolute genius of an investigator," Byers said, admiration in  
his voice. "He got people to talk to him who nobody else could,  
apparently, though I shudder to think how he did it. He knew nearly  
everything about the IRA. Its members, most of their inner structure.  
By the time the peace came he had it all basically mapped out, who  
was who and what was what. But, like so much surrounding terrorism,  
he couldn't pin many specific terrorist activities on individuals, so  
there weren't a lot of arrests when all was said and done. He knows a  
lot, though. He should be a big help to you."

"If..." Frohike ventured, and Mulder, Granger and Skinner turned to  
look at him.

"'If' what?" Skinner said, shaking his head in confusion.

"If he's not out of his freaking mind at this point," Langley said,  
and tapped on the screen. A face appeared on it, a hard looking man  
with a beard and eyes like flint. It looked like a mug shot, which,  
Mulder realized, it was. 

"He was the best Scotland Yard had until about five years ago,"  
Byers said. "Then...well, the wheels seemed to come off the wagon.  
Right after the peace accord was signed. Started getting picked up  
for being drunk in public. Several assaults. One domestic dispute  
that turned ugly. He was formally reprimanded several times by  
Scotland Yard, put on light duty. Finally they had to get rid of him,  
though I think his exemplary record kept him from being ousted  
completely. So it's listed as 'medical leave' on the official  
records."

"He sounded drunk when I talked to him on the phone," Skinner said,  
shaking his head. 

"Yeah, that's our guess," Frohike said. "That he's a complete lush  
at this point. An embarrassment to the force, but still knows enough  
that they want to keep him around. We checked his tax returns -- he's  
still drawing pay from Scotland Yard. No family. No nothing. He lives  
in a tiny apartment in London. Not much else to him, besides an  
occasional arrest for being drunk and disorderly." 

"Not much to him except the IRA," Langley said. "He spent his whole  
life investigating them, moving back and forth between London and  
Belfast and Dublin." 

Mulder chewed his lip, considering this. For a man like Renahan,  
peace would be difficult to take. 

"When war's your whole life," Granger said, breaking his thoughts,  
"and the war's over, there's not much left for a soldier to do, is  
there?"

They all seemed to consider this for a beat, Mulder still gnawing  
his lip, thinking. He knew about causes. He knew about crusades. 

He wondered, if he didn't have Scully to ground him, if something  
similar might become of him, as well. 

"That's what we've got so far," Frohike said, moving around to get  
another piece of pizza from the grease-stained box on the edge of a  
desk. "We'll have more as you give us more names. We've been checking  
Immigration Records, too -- Irish citizens coming in and out of the  
U.S. around the times of the first bombing and the second at the  
hotel, but nobody's pinged up anything yet. Nobody with IRA ties at  
all in the databases." 

"Very good," Skinner said, looking grim. "Though it's not a lot to  
go on at this point. We've got a lot of work ahead of us, and we  
can't be sure this guy Renahan is going to be any fucking help at  
all, the state he's in." 

"He's the best you're going to get over there," Frohike said,  
talking around a mouthful of pizza. "He'll turn up something. I bet  
you anything." 

"So," Mulder said. "What's this surprise you've got in store for me?" 

The Gunmen looked at each other, looking pleased with themselves.

"Surprise?" Skinner said, his brow squinting down.

"Yeah, we've been cooking something up for you." Frohike finished  
stuffing the slice in his mouth and went to the corner of the desk  
where two laptops sat, two brand-new looking iBooks, their silver-  
grey cases shining. 

"We did some thinking on how this person knew Scully was leaving the  
hotel when she was," Byers said, swiveling toward Mulder. "The only  
thing we can figure is that the phone calls you said you and Scully  
made the night before, when you decided on the time to pick her up,  
were being monitored." 

"My cell phone?" Mulder asked. "How the hell would someone know to  
do that?"

"Near as we can figure," Langley piped up, "someone must have hacked  
into the FBI and gotten a finger on your signal. Found the right  
frequency and started listening in." 

Mulder turned to Skinner. "You have a record of our cell phone  
frequencies?" he asked, and Skinner looked a little uncomfortable.

"Yes," he said. "All the FBI-issued phones' frequencies are  
recorded. In case they ever need to be traced. It's a standard  
security protocol." He glared at the Gunmen. "Though not one we  
publicize." 

"Well, someone knew about it," Frohike said. "That's probably how he  
figured out where you all would be eating that night, too. I bet you  
made the reservations at the Thai place over the phone, too?" 

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "From the car. On the way home that  
night." 

"You're going to have to leave your phone here with us," Byers said. 

"We'll get him another one," Skinner said firmly. "And won't record  
the frequency." 

"We can't risk it," Mulder said, peeved. "Who's to say I wouldn't be  
watched somewhere using it and someone could trace the signal right  
where I was standing? Who knows who could be watching?"

"My guess," Frohike said gravely, "is that you take a cell phone and  
turn it on in Ireland, someone's eventually going to figure out  
you're there, that you're snooping around. And if you try to contact  
Scully in New Mexico with it, they'll know where she is, and that  
she's alive. And she can't use one there, either."

"They don't work on the reservation anyway," Mulder said. "It's a  
'no signal' zone. Only the land lines work in the houses." 

"Good," Byers said. "They don't know where she is, so they won't  
know to go looking there, not that they'll be looking for her at all.  
And Mae Curran will be safe, as well." 

Mulder nodded to the laptops. "So what are those?" he asked. 

Frohike smiled. "Your lifeline, compadre," he said, and laid the  
laptop in Mulder's hands.

Mulder looked at it, shook his head, not understanding.

"Satellite modems in both of them," Langley said. "Untraceable. We  
thought you might like a way to communicate with Scully without there  
being any way for you to be traced. We'll give one to Granger to take  
to Scully, and you can take one with you." 

Mulder was touched, and it showed on his face. "How do you know it  
can't be traced, though?" he asked, feeling some of the Gunmen's  
paranoia leaking into him with the news about his phone.

Langley gave a broad, proud smile. "Because they're going to hack  
straight into a DoD satellite using a scrambled coder we picked up  
off the Chinese," he said, his chest puffed out. "We've already  
tested it and the Feds have no clue we're using their signal and--"

"Wait a minute," Skinner said, cutting him off. "Do I want to know  
about this?" 

"No," Frohike, Byers and Langley said together, looking at him. 

Skinner nodded. "That's what I thought," he said under his breath. 

Granger laughed from the couch, a pained sound.

Mulder held the laptop in his hands, looked up into Frohike's  
smiling face. 

"Thank you," he said, feeling warm. He had a way to talk to her. A  
safe way. He was overwhelmed with the thought.

"You're welcome," Frohike said, and slapped his arm. He picked up  
the other computer and handed it to Granger on the couch as though it  
might break. Granger took it and nodded. 

"We've got to go, Mulder," Skinner said, his voice quiet, as though  
he didn't want to break the moment. "We've got paperwork to do at the  
airport."

Mulder looked at the Gunmen, feeling color rise in his face. "I  
don't know how to repay you guys for what you're doing for us," he  
said. 

Frohike waved him off. "Don't worry. It's a slow month anyway. New  
JFK theory -- aliens and the Chinese -- but that's about it." He  
winked, and Mulder laughed.

Skinner reached a hand toward Granger on the couch. Granger was  
rising slowly, and Skinner helped him the rest of the way up. 

"Let's go," Skinner said, and he looked at the Gunmen. "Keep in  
touch with anything you've got. I'll call from a land line when we  
get to Belfast, tell you where we are." 

"We'll wait for your call," Frohike said, undoing the locks. 

Mulder turned to look at them, the computer under his arm. 

"Good luck," Byers said, nodding grimly. 

"Thanks," Mulder replied, and Frohike let him and Skinner and  
Granger out into the alley, into the falling night. 

 

************

OUTSIDE CUSHENDUN, ANTRIM COAST   
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.   
8:04 p.m.

 

Following the Antrim Coast Road, the smell of sea salt in the chilly  
night air from the North Channel coming in through the car window,  
the young man drove slowly along the familiar road, moving away from  
the lights of quiet village of Cushendun, the wide bay, the deserted  
beach, toward the hilly country on the outskirts. It was dark as  
pitch, hardly any lights on. Even when he did pass a house set far  
off the road, or a farm, there were no lights, and he felt for a  
moment as if he'd dropped off the edge of the world, into the cold  
sea beyond. 

Across the Channel, only fourteen miles away, a lighthouse on the  
coast of Scotland glinted at him, a beacon of light in the darkness.  
He found his eye drawn to it and he wove onto a small side road, this  
one more narrow, but wide enough for his tiny car, its engine small  
and whining, a loner from a friend in Belfast. He hadn't gotten  
around to getting his own car, though the money was there. He didn't  
feel much need to leave the city, preferring the quiet of his rented  
flat, the sound of music in the pubs, the company of his few friends. 

But tonight he'd left the city, travelling north and east, toward  
the coast, up through Carrickfergus, through Larne, past the  
lighthouse at Black Head, past Glenarm Castle and up further as the  
night had fallen. 

It was not an errand he wanted to make, but make it he did. He  
always came when called, and he was surprised the call had not come  
sooner than this. 

Up into the nothingness of the night, the smell of the sea  
retreating to the smell of green, down to a smaller road, which he  
followed for some time. Finally the high stone archway came into view  
and he passed beneath it, going up the long road that led to the  
estate. 

The lights were on out front, though they did little to illuminate  
the immensity of the mansion, the stone of its walls seeming to  
absorb the light. 

A servant came down from the heavy, huge door, hurrying to the  
driver's side and opening the door with a practiced, smooth hand.

"How was your drive, Mr. Collin?" the man asked politely, with a  
smile that reminded the young Mr. Collin of wax. 

"Good enough," he replied, stepping out. 

"Very good, sir," the man said, closing the door behind him. "She's  
waiting in the study for you. A late supper is waiting, as well." 

The young man said nothing, only entered the cavernous house,  
leaving the man and the night chill behind. 

Through the huge foyer, the walls lined with paintings and hung with  
tapestries of rich red and gold. There was a huge stone staircase  
that wound its way up to the second floor, and then the third beyond  
it, and he followed it up, into a corridor lined with a thick,  
ancient rug. Lights that looked like lamps were set into the wall,  
and they had once been lamps, hundreds of years ago. 

There was a closed door to his left, another to his right. He walked  
past them toward an open door at the end of the corridor where he  
could see a fire burning in a fireplace. A large fire at the end of  
the large room. 

He stopped by the doorway, gave the massive wooden door a light  
knock, steeling himself.

"Come in, Christie," came a faint voice. "Come in." 

He entered the dimly lit room, his eyes scanning the antique  
furniture, the chairs by the fire. There was a large armchair there,  
surrounded by couches and few small tables. He could smell food  
coming from one of the tables, his eyes falling on the silver tray. 

And in front of it, a wheelchair. Facing the fire, though as he  
entered the room, there was a whining of a motor and the chair turned  
slowly around to face him. 

"Sit," the figure in the chair said, the face hidden by shadows.  
"Eat. You must be hungry after such a long drive." 

The wheelchair's motor whined again, and the chair moved into the  
dim circle of light thrown by a lamp, revealing the face. 

She was an ancient woman, her face as frail as her voice. Her hair  
was white as snow and perfectly set around her lined face. To  
Christie, she looked like a candle, thin and white and her skin lined  
and dripping off of her like melted wax. She wore a prim black dress  
made of velvet, and a great jeweled broach at her thin throat. Her  
black shoes shone in the lamp light, never having touched the floor.

Her eyes shone in her alabaster face, bright and blue and more alive  
than the rest of her combined. A small smile played on her nearly  
lipless mouth, her false, too straight teeth showing and making her  
head look like a skull capped with neat, neat white. 

Christie moved toward the chair next to the table with the food,  
pushing up the sleeves of his black sweater, as the room was far too  
hot, the walls bathed with the dance of shadows from the flames. 

"Don't you have a kiss for your grandmother first, Christie?" came  
the slightly wheezing voice. "A little kiss?"

He stopped, turned and went toward the woman in the chair slowly.  
His feet felt like lead as he did it, but he reached the chair,  
leaned down and moved to touch his mouth to her dry cheek.

She turned her face as he did so, more quickly than she should have  
been able to, and her mouth touched his for the briefest instant. 

He pulled back as if her mouth had given him an electric shock, but  
her claw-like hand, usually on the armrest by the controls for the  
chair and a small boxed remote, reached up and touched the back of  
his close-cropped hair, stroking softly. 

"Such a good boy," she whispered. "A good, good boy." 

Christie smiled wanly and moved backwards toward the chair, sitting  
down heavily. He lifted the silver lid from the silver tray, a half a  
chicken greeting him, some potatoes. He dug into the meal as though  
he'd never eaten before, his eyes down.

"I'm surprised you haven't come back to see me since you returned  
from the States," her breathy voice said, and the wheelchair whined a  
bit closer. "I'm surprised I had to call for you like I did."

"Just been busy," he said, tearing into the chicken with the sharp  
knife. "I was going to come soon enough." 

He glanced up into her face, and she was smiling that same toothy  
smile. 

"You did wonderful work there in Washington, Christie," she said.  
"Wonderful work." 

He looked back down at the food, took a bite. "Thank you," he said  
softly.

"And do you know what has come to me?" she said, her voice rising  
slightly. "Wonderful news. I've been told that it was this Scully who  
was the one who killed my John." 

Christie stopped with the fork moving to his mouth, meeting his  
grandmother's gaze. "Is that so?" he said.

"Yes," she said, nodding, her head seeming too large for her thin,  
bird-like neck. "And a news report in the States reported she was  
pregnant, as well." She smiled again.

He swallowed, the news hitting him in the gut. "That's good news,  
too, is it?" he said, chewing slowly. 

"Yes, it is," the old woman said. "More of a blow to her husband.  
More for her to lose. Wonderful news." 

Christie reached for the goblet of water on the tray, took a drink.  
"Well," he began carefully. "If that Scully was the one who killed  
John, there's no need to go after the other, is there then?" 

But the old woman shook her head. 

"I want Curran dead, as well," she wisped. "Still. She betrayed her  
brother. She betrayed John. She betrayed the Cause." 

He swallowed again, unable to meet his grandmother's gaze. 

"Don't you agree, Christie?" she asked faintly. 

"Aye, I suppose," he said quietly, putting down his knife and fork. 

"You 'suppose'?" she asked, and she tutted softly. "Christie, don't  
tell me your father was right about you and that your heart wouldn't  
be in this all the way." 

He felt heat rising up in his cheeks at the mention of his father. A  
picture of a stern face entered his mind, the memory of shouting. A  
hand across his face. 

"No," he said, his chin rising. "My heart is in it."

The old woman smiled. "Good," she said, the word coming out slow and  
soft. 

The fire crackled in the fireplace, a log falling. The fireplace  
bled even more heat into the room, a flash of light. 

"Mae Curran entered the U.S. on February 22nd," the old woman  
continued. "She brought a baby with her and Owen Curran's son through  
U.S. Customs in Los Angeles. She's travelling under the name 'Porter'  
now. Her husband was killed by the bomb in Australia. We've checked  
the wire reports from there. She apparently fled to the States." 

Christie nodded. "I see," he said noncommitedly, but his heart sank.  
He didn't relish returning to the States. Not ever again.

And all the children involved now. The dead baby already...

"We're looking for her there. We think she might have tried to find  
this Scully again, so we're trying to find this man Mulder, Scully's  
partner, and see if he can lead us to her. Perhaps the FBI has gotten  
involved. If so, it shouldn't be too hard to find her. Given  
the...resources...we're using." 

Christie sniffed, rubbed his mouth with a napkin. "No," he said  
softly. "I suppose not." 

The wheelchair whined as the chair slid closer across the thick  
carpet, and Christie sat up a little straighter as she moved beside  
him, reaching her hand out to touch his arm. 

"I know what you're thinking, Christie," she said softly, stroking  
his arm. "All the time in the Army and now this. But it will be over  
soon enough. We're moving quickly. We'll find her soon. So soon..."

Her hand was cold where it touched the skin of his arm. The chicken  
suddenly smelled too heavy, too much like cooked meat. He swallowed  
down a wave of nausea as she lifted his hand, rubbed it against her  
cheek. 

Heat washed over him, the fire seeming to flare. He couldn't help  
it. He closed his eyes as she brought his fingers to her cold, pale  
lips for another arid kiss.

 

*************


	3. Chapter 3

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO   
MARCH 18   
11:30 a.m.

 

On Ghost's gray back, Albert Hosteen rode in the relative silence of  
the high desert, the sun warm and climbing high overhead and hanging  
in the crags of the Chaco Mountains far off in the distance. The  
horse's hooves kicked up a slight cloud of dust that settled around  
him like tan smoke, a faint wind on his face that still held some of  
the cool of the early morning on its breath. 

He wore a dark green shirt, the sleeves rolled up in the warm  
sunlight, his jeans so faded they were almost white. He held a rope  
in one hand, his other one on the worn reins. The aging saddle  
creaked with each of the horse's steps, the saddle as old as the  
horse, the leather beginning to crack at the joinings. The leather  
was the deep brown of Hosteen's weathered skin. 

The reins slack, the horse lowered his head and sneezed, a ruffling  
sound. Hosteen reached down and stroked the animal's soft neck, his  
fingers trailing in the white mane. He spoke softly to the creature  
in Navajo, and the horse's ears cocked back, as if to listen, which  
made Hosteen smile.

It was a faint smile, though. Much was on his mind. 

Agent Scully, looking pale and tired at the breakfast table that  
morning, was the current focus of his thoughts. She'd said the baby  
had kept her up -- the child's movements and a touch of nausea -- and  
she'd smiled wanly as she said it. 

Of course, she had lied. 

He'd worried over her, standing beside the window with his pipe in  
the corner of his mouth. She'd picked at the breakfast Sara had made,  
eggs and bacon and fry bread. She hadn't even protested when  
Whistler had put the terrible smelling tea in front of her.   
Hosteen's brows had risen with that. 

He found his mind drifting to Eda, his wife, dead for more than 20  
years now from cancer, her body growing thin and her skin turning to  
paper between the worn sheets of the hospital in Farmington, then  
later, how she'd seemed to vanish in their bed at home, like watching  
her turn to sand and dust. 

He thought of how he'd felt after she'd gone, how he'd sat for hours  
on the porch out front, his sons there, but how he'd felt alone in a  
way he had not yet experienced, like an essential part of him had  
gone missing along with Eda, the children almost like reminders of a  
life he had once had and would never have again. 

Of course, he had learned to deal with the space inside him, open as  
the desert beyond the house, a barren patch in him. He'd learned to  
live a different life, filled with children and grandchildren, and  
with his faith and his place in the community. 

Thinking of Agent Scully, the lost look on her face, the look of  
someone with something missing, he remembered all of this. He  
thought of how she was when she'd come to him with Mulder before, so  
much broken between them, how she'd looked the same then, though it  
had been well hidden then with shame and rage and pain. He  
remembered Mulder on the concrete porch at his brother's house, the  
time he'd found him shirtless in the chilly morning, Bo creeping at  
the edge of the property like a ghost, how Mulder had seemed almost  
like Hosteen himself in the weeks after Eda had died, his arms  
crossed over his bare chest.

Hosteen sighed, the horse angling around a small scrubby brush, the  
mountains closer now, great crags of sand and stone. 

Mulder and Scully had found their way back to one another in this  
place, coming together as something stronger than what they'd been  
before. And Scully would find a way to be apart from him here, as  
well. She had it in her to do that now, even if on this first  
morning alone she did not know it yet.

It was good, he decided, that she learn this lesson now. When the  
road between her and Mulder was clear, though filled with distance.   
Better to learn this way than how he had learned it. When there was  
no way back at all.

A soft stumbling behind him, a tug on the rope in his hand, and his  
mind came back to the present. He turned slightly on the horse's  
back and looked behind.

The pony was shuffling along behind him, its neck outstretched  
slightly, a peeved look on its face. On its back, the boy sat, a  
baseball cap on his head, his eyes down until he saw Hosteen looking  
at him. They rose to meet his gaze, and then darted back down  
again, as though afraid. His hands were gripping not the reins but  
the horn of the small western saddle, his knuckles white.

Sean's first time on a horse, his aunt had said when Hosteen had  
gone to gather him at his brother's house, the boy silent in the back  
room when Hosteen had entered. Sean had been drawing on the floor,  
stretched out with markers and crayons, and Hosteen had stood over  
him, looking down into his thin, still frightened face. 

"A good picture," he'd pronounced, looking down at the drawing, a  
very close likeness of the pony -- its charcoal back, the round white  
spot on its rump dotted with black. Beneath the pony was a single  
word:

Cloud.

"And a good name," Hosteen had continued, smiling kindly. "Looks  
like a storm cloud, the colors on his back." 

Not surprisingly, Sean had not replied.

"Time to go out," Hosteen said, and, reaching his hand down toward  
Sean, the boy had risen and followed him out of the house, past his  
aunt's worried face, past the baby in her arms, whose hands had  
brushed Hosteen's shirt as he'd passed. 

Hosteen lifted Sean onto the pony's back once Victor had saddled it,  
Ghost standing patiently beside them, and then they'd headed out into  
the desert, leaving everything else behind.

Miles from the house now, the sun coming almost exactly overhead,  
Hosteen turned his attention to the foot of the mountains, the land  
around it, barren but beautiful in that way that desert was, things  
greener than usual with the coming spring.

They reached a large clearing at the foot of the mountains hemmed in  
with boulders, and Hosteen urged Ghost to halt with a touch of the  
reins. The pony likewise stopped, tossing its head against the rope  
Hosteen held in his hand, still looking irritated at being led for so  
long from the stable. As he dismounted, Hosteen smiled at the pony,  
and touched its small nose with his free hand.

"Are you ready to learn how to ride?" Hosteen said, standing close,  
and Sean looked at him, uncertain. He wouldn't take his hands off  
the horn, the reins against the pony's mane. 

"I will hold the rope while you are learning," he added, showing  
Sean the rope in his hand. "But you will do the steering and the  
stopping. You will do all the work. Before we leave here today, you  
will be able to ride him back walking beside me with him, not behind  
me with me leading you along. What do you think of that?"

Sean stared back, and then shook his head. Hosteen merely smiled.

"You can do it. Your pony is very tame. The man I got him from  
said he would not hurt anything, that he would mind very well." He  
paused, meeting Sean's gaze. 

"Trust," he said softly. "In me and in yourself. You can learn and  
will do very well. I can feel it. And I have feelings about such  
things." 

Sean merely looked at him, and shook his head again. 

"Hm," Hosteen hummed softly, and stood back. "Come down off of him  
and we will start at the beginning. Something easy. All right?" 

He helped Sean slide off the pony's back, holding him around the  
waist. Then he handed the rope to him, and stepped back, walking a  
few paces away from Ghost, who watched him go. 

"The first thing you must do is call a horse by its name," Hosteen  
said. "Let it hear you, so it can learn to mind. Watch."

And as Sean shook his head, Hosteen reached his hand up toward Ghost  
and spoke in Navajo to him. First his name, then the word "come."   
He did not move otherwise. 

Ghost pricked up his ears toward him at the sound of his voice, then  
obediently came forward until his nose touched Hosteen's outstretched  
hand. 

"Good," he said softly. "Good." Then he looked at Sean. "Now you.  
Go over there and say the pony's name, and the word 'come.' See if  
he will hear your voice."

But Sean was shaking his head again, looking down, and dropped the  
rope. 

"An easy thing to do," Hosteen said, ignoring him. "Two words. It  
is how you start with an animal like this. He will not mind you  
unless he hears your voice."

He watched Sean look at the pony, the ground, and back again. 

"You are only speaking to the pony, Sean," Hosteen said quietly.   
"Not to me or to anyone else. Only to him. Go on. Try." 

He nearly held his breath in the waiting that followed, doing his  
best to appear nonchalant, talking softly to Ghost as though he were  
paying Sean no mind at all. 

Then he watched, from the corner of his eye, Sean walk a few paces  
away from the pony, close to a boulder on one side. The boy raised  
his hand and looked at the animal, who watched him, gnawing absently  
on its bit. 

Sean's mouth opened, but nothing came out, closed it again, then  
opened. Then...

"C..Cloud." A high voice, almost as faint as a whisper. A long  
pause, the boy's eyes going down as he heard his own voice. 

The pony's ears came up, but it did nothing. 

"Call him louder," Hosteen said gently. "He will mind. Tell him to  
come to you." 

Sean swallowed, his hand still outstretched. He opened his mouth  
again, hesitated. 

"Cloud," he said, a bit louder, though his voice was hoarse, papery.  
Hosteen smiled at the clipped accent in the word. 

Sean drew in a breath, swallowed again. When he spoke, it was  
almost a normal tone.

"Come." 

The pony hesitated, but Hosteen knew Victor had spent the better  
part of yesterday and the day before teaching the pony the word. 

Then it pricked its ears forward, and, dragging the rope after it,  
it went to Sean until its nose touched his palm.

And Sean did something Hosteen had yet to see him do.

He smiled.

 

******

 

THE HANGED MAN   
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.   
1:22 p.m.

 

TO: RosesRedHotMama   
FROM: SpookyPapa   
DATE: 18 March 2003   
SUBJECT: Trying this out

S,

Well, one thing's for certain -- no one is ever going to find a way  
to trace these names. You sound like a porn site advertiser and I  
sound like a truck driver's CB handle or a racehorse. Never let the  
Gunmen configure your email accounts, I guess. And I don't think we  
have to guess which one of them made the names, given yours. The  
worst part is I don't think they can be changed at this point, so  
we're going to have to live with them.

I'm here -- remind me not to come the day after St. Patrick's Day  
again, will you? I don't think it brings out the best in these  
people. But that could be because of places we're staying right now  
\-- mostly pubs, looking for the elusive Mr. R. He hasn't shown up  
where he was supposed to be and there's been no word on him from  
anyone here. I've got a room, though, and the food is just like I  
remember it -- heavy and good. Sk's so jetlagged he can't see  
straight. I can't believe after all this time he hasn't learned to  
sleep on planes. He's been pissed off all day about R. not being  
here when we showed up. I figure he'll turn up, though. The  
bartender says he's basically been living here for several days,  
belly up to the bar the whole time. I can't wait to meet him. 

Just a note about G. -- he's really not looking good lately, though  
he's trying to hide it as best he can. That gunshot wound really has  
him tied up. I wonder if there's anything you can do for him, if  
he'll let you. He's too young to be hurt that bad. I'm wondering if  
there's something else wrong that he's not letting on about. Maybe  
he'll talk to you about it. 

I'm thinking about you. Too much, probably. Wondering how you are,  
what you're doing with yourself. Thinking about the baby, and what  
you're feeling. I didn't think it would hit me this hard, this soon,  
but knowing you're so far away...it's just hard. I'm glad we have  
this, though. We've never really written letters before, and who  
knows? It might be sort of enjoyable if we get into the habit of it.  
I'd give anything to be sitting in front of you, though, reading your  
eyes. I forget sometimes how much I can tell just by watching them,  
how much you give away with them, if only to me. 

Hey S, should we start using emoticons? Abbreviations? I'd love to  
have you ROTFLYAO. ;) :) ;)

Write me when you get a chance. I'll check here for you as often as  
I can.

I love you.

M.

 

Mulder moved the cursor over to the "send" button on the tiny  
machine, tapped it softly, and sat back in the chair at the worn desk  
in his room, looking at the message that the email had been sent for  
a long moment, feeling somehow hollow inside as he did it. He could  
hear someone moving down the hallway toward the common bath, the  
creak of the door. Below him, a murmuring of the people in the pub,  
the faint sound of a television playing, a sporting event from the  
sound of an announcer and a crowd. 

They hadn't been in Belfast long, and the place felt enormously  
strange to him, despite his college years in the U.K Going from the  
desert and the desolation of the reservation to this, a city teeming  
with people and noise and traffic, was quite a shock to his system. 

As was being away from Scully so suddenly. He couldn't believe he'd  
just left her the morning before, there beneath the covers in his  
sweatshirt in Albert Hosteen's house. Already it felt like years,  
made worse by the strangeness of the place and the distance. 

He sat up straighter, ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off  
his forehead and scrubbing it back. 

He couldn't think that way. He had to concentrate. There was a lot  
to be done here, and he had to be ready for what was to come. Not  
distracted. Not aching the way he was now. 

More footsteps outside the door, and a knock this time. 

"Come in," he called, and Skinner entered the room, glancing at the  
computer, still on, on the desk. 

"I'm not interrupting you, am I?" Skinner grumbled, his ill-  
temperedness from the morning clearly still gripping him. He looked  
tired, pissed off. 

"No," Mulder said quickly, and reached out to shut the internet  
connection off, then he turned the computer off. "I'm all done. Any  
word?"

"Yeah," Skinner said. He wore jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt  
with a black jacket over it to hide his gun at his hip. "Renahan  
just got back from wherever the hell he's been. The bartender just  
pointed him out to me. He's downstairs in the pub."

Mulder stood, reached for his own leather jacket, also long enough  
to hide his Sig, pulled it on over the black turtleneck he wore. 

"Let's go," he said, and Skinner nodded, led the way into the hall,  
Mulder closing the door behind him. 

They wove their way down the narrow staircase that led from the  
rooms upstairs to the pub below, a dark, cave-like place with a long  
bar and some tables, a few booths lining the walls. There were dim  
lamps in the booths, and ceiling fans kept the persistent smell of  
cigarette and pipe smoke milling around the room. 

Skinner stopped just at the bottom of the stairs, nodded toward one  
of the booths where a man sat, alone, his back to them. Mulder could  
make out a long stretch of uncombed hair, a curl of smoke. 

"That's him," Skinner said, and led the way toward the table. 

The man that gazed up them as they stopped beside the table seemed  
more weary than Mulder had ever seen anyone look in his life. Dark  
circles beneath his eyes, set into a pasty white face. A wild beard  
and piercing eyes, which met Mulder's, then looked him up and down,  
doing the same to Skinner, though he appeared to recognize Skinner at  
least.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, and it was not friendly. 

"Yeah, that's me," Skinner said. "This is Agent Fox Mulder."

Renahan's lip curled. "Not hurt as bad as you looked, eh?" he said,  
staring at Mulder. "Not hurt at all, in fact." 

"No," Mulder said carefully. "I'm fine."

Renahan nodded. "I'd venture a guess that your wife is fine, as  
well. Am I right?" 

Mulder looked at Skinner, unsure of what to say, and Skinner looked  
down at Renahan. 

"We can't discuss that," Skinner said, keeping his voice low. "Not  
here." 

Renahan smiled a bit more. "No need to discuss," he said. "You've  
answered my question already." He gestured to the other side of the  
booth. "Please. Sit. I don't bite, you know. Just look like I do  
these days."

Mulder glanced at Skinner again, and then slid into the booth,  
Skinner following him. 

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Renahan," Skinner began without prelude.   
"But where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be here to  
meet us this morning." 

"Out," Renahan replied, unruffled. Mulder noticed he had a  
cigarette in one hand, a pint in the other. The hand holding the  
cigarette shook slightly. "Been talking to some old acquaintances of  
mine from years back, those that are still around, that is. Finding  
lots of people dead." 

Mulder nodded. "Are you finding what you need?" he asked, pitching  
his voice carefully neutral. He was trying to get a read on the man,  
and it was hard. The eyes gave nothing away at all. Blank as slate,  
though intelligent.

Renahan looked back at him, appraising him again. "A bit of what I  
need, yes," he said. "It's not IRA doing this. I know that for  
certain now. The IRA's up to nothing much these days, and killing  
two women -- including one of their own -- isn't something they're  
doing. I've been trying to get a finger on Fagan with a few people,  
but haven't found anything out I didn't already know." 

Renahan took a drink from his pint in the silence that followed,  
Mulder chewing his lip. Skinner was looking around the pub as though  
trying to figure out if they were being watched. 

"What about a man named Eamon?" Mulder asked. "A custom's officer  
who was arrested once a long time ago." 

Renahan's eyes narrowed. "Eamon Neill?" he replied, sounding  
incredulous. 

"I don't know his last name," Mulder said. "Mae didn't know his  
last name. She just said he might be someone who could help us find  
out something about Fagan."

"Well, that's the only custom's officer named Eamon I know," the  
grizzled man replied, puffing on his smoke. "The only one we  
arrested. He went to jail for a few years for conspiracy. Couldn't  
pin any actual murders on him, though I know he's as dirty as they  
come. Hiding people, stealing cars and weapons, scoping out targets.  
He got a lot of people killed, that one, even if he didn't do it  
himself." 

"Mae said he was good friends with Owen Curran, and that he knew  
John Fagan," Mulder pressed. "Do you think we could find him?"

Renahan looked at Mulder and gave that same quirky smile, as though  
he found Mulder terribly amusing. "You just want to walk right up to  
his house and knock on the door, Agent Mulder?" He laughed.   
"Doesn't work that way around here." 

"Why not?" Mulder said, leaning forward slightly. "These people  
aren't the ones under investigation. And if this Neill has already  
been arrested, he knows that we'd know he had IRA connections. It's  
not like we'd be exposing someone with no known ties. He might be  
willing to talk to us."

Renahan's eyes narrowed again on Mulder. "What makes you so certain  
of that, Agent Mulder? Eamon Neill is about as close to Path as  
you're going to find. He might not want to risk further exposing  
himself." 

"We won't know unless we try," Mulder replied, looking to Skinner  
for backup. Skinner nodded. 

"It might be worth our time to talk to him," Skinner said. "IF you  
know where to find him." 

Renahan leaned back, stubbed out his cigarette. "I don't know where  
Neill is anymore," he said. "But I know some people who might know."  
He moved to stand, Mulder and Skinner looking up at him. 

"Well, come on," Renahan said, chiding and gesturing toward the  
door. "If you're going to do this, then do it. Time to meet a few  
people. Get your faces out there. They'll bloody well like your  
faces better than they'll like mine." 

"Where are we going?" Skinner asked, standing, and allowing Mulder  
to do the same. 

"Derry," Renahan said softly. "Right into the middle of things.   
That seems to be where Agent Mulder wants to be." 

He looked at Mulder, who stared back.

"You're right," he said. "I do." 

Renahan smiled, and Mulder thought it was the first smile of any  
real emotion he'd seen the man give him yet.. 

"Then let's get at it," he said, and led the way out of the pub. 

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO   
3:13 p.m.

 

TO: SpookyPapa   
FROM: RosesRedHotMama   
DATE: 18 March 2003   
SUBJECT: Re: Trying this out

 

M,

First, the next time I see F., pray I don't I have my gun with me. 

Second, the first time you "LOL", I K-Y-A. 

I miss you. There's no other way to say that. I remember a line of  
poetry I read years ago, when I was in college, I think. I can't  
remember who wrote it, but the line has always stayed with me. It  
goes: "Your absence has gone through me like thread through a  
needle. All that I do is stitched with its color." I know that  
sounds trite and romantic -- blame the hormones. But it already feels  
like a long time since I've seen you, and things are lonely here  
without you. 

I took a long walk out to the trailer again today, and it was almost  
as though I was looking for you, expected to find you there sitting  
on the edge of the bed with Bo again. Thinking of that helps me, in  
a way. You looked so lost when I found you there. I hope you've  
found what you're looking for where you are now, or at least are in a  
place where you feel you can begin searching for what you need to  
come back again.

I'm interested to hear what this man R is like. M. told me a little  
about his reputation with the IRA this morning after breakfast,  
before I went walking out behind the house. The IRA were  
simultaneously afraid of him and admired him greatly. He got people  
to talk without using force. M. still doesn't know how he did it,  
and there's a strange tone when she talks about him. It's the kind  
of tone she uses when she talks about what she calls "The Old Guard"  
of the IRA, this group of men who seemed to run the entire IRA  
underground when she was a child. She's been talking more lately,  
though it seems to make her sad to do it. She doesn't name a lot of  
names, but I think her starting to open up a little bit is a good  
sign. It's all so entrenched with who she is, even after everything  
she's been through with O. It's like a limb she has. She can't just  
cut it off without losing something essential about herself. It's  
going to take some time.

Mr. H. is out with Sean. They've been gone for hours. 

Bo misses you, too. He's sulking around the house.

The baby is moving a lot again today. Sometimes I worry that she  
moves too much, that something is wrong. I know that's not rational,  
and that I'd worry more if she didn't move much at all, but it's  
strange to feel this all the time, this fluttering inside me. Did  
you know she's about a pound now, about ten inches long? Sometimes I  
swear when I put my hand on my belly I can feel her there, but I  
think it's just my own pulse in my palm.

I think I hear a car coming up the driveway. It must be G. coming  
back from taking his things to V.'s. He came by when he got in,  
dropped off the computer and then went out right away to get settled  
in. And yes, I know he hasn't been doing well since the surgery --  
and I know he's been trying to hide it, too. I was against the idea  
of him coming here at first, but now I think he can probably use the  
time away from the office, maybe get some extra rest and heal a  
little better. I'll do what I can with him, though you know he'll  
chafe if I hover too much. 

I've got to go. Write me when you can. 

I love you, too.

S.

 

Scully didn't read the email over -- she just touched the "send"  
button and powered down the computer, hearing the slam of a car door  
out front, Bo looking up from where he sat next to her on the floor  
beside the bed. The dog's ears pricked forward, and he whined.

"It's okay," she said, out of habit. She'd been saying it to the  
dog all day, all the time he'd followed her out into the desert  
behind the house to the trailer, all through the time they'd spent in  
the minivan down to where Mae was staying in Hosteen's brother's  
trailer. He missed Mulder almost as much as she did. Perhaps more. 

Placing the computer on the bed beside her, its power cord trailing  
off the side of the bed, she stood, stretched her aching back, and  
went out into the hallway, Bo trailing along beside her, to the  
living room. Someone was knocking on the front door, and Scully went  
to the door, opened it. 

Granger stood there, a slight smile on his face. 

"Hi," he said, and Scully gave a small smile to him in return and  
opened the screen door to let him in. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "I didn't pester you before." He  
smiled wider. 

"I'm okay," she replied. She noticed the Ruger at his hip, the  
holster threaded through the black belt he wore with his jeans, his  
gray T-shirt tucked into the waist.

"What do you think of your quarters?" she asked. 

"They're fine," Granger said, and his brow creased down. "But I  
don't like to think of you up here by yourself." 

She smiled the same wan smile. "I'm okay. I've got Mr. Hosteen  
here with me most of the time, and a woman named Sara Whistler is  
here usually when he's not."

"I meant without someone with a gun," he said, shaking his head.

She edged her hand down to the waist of her maternity jeans at her  
back, drew out her Sig, which was tucked in its holster there. 

"There is someone with a gun," she replied, and he shook his head  
and laughed. 

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the door. "Drive me down to  
Mae's." 

"All right," Granger said, and followed her out of the house, back  
out to his rental car, one of the small SUVs that were so popular at  
the moment. It gleamed, brand new, in the sunlight.

"I got a four-wheel drive at the airport," he said.. "I didn't know  
if we might need it." 

She climbed into the passenger side, moving carefully. "You never  
know." 

And he took the driver's seat and they made their way down the dirt  
road toward the stables and Victor's place. 

 

**

Scully left Granger and went toward the house a few hundred feet  
behind it, Albert's brother's house where Mae was staying with  
Katherine and Sean.

Every time she approached it, she remembered that night all that  
time ago, coming in from days in the desert, the porchlight on, and  
Mulder waiting there. It had felt like a tomb when she'd entered it  
that night, a place of grief. 

But so much more had been made there, that night and the nights that  
followed. What she and Mulder were now had been forged there, the  
open wound of them closed over in that quiet place.

Now, as she approached it again, it had the same feel to it. The  
same quietness. The same grief. Not even Katherine's laughter,  
sounding out of place in the silence around the house, seemed to  
alleviate it. 

Scully stopped before the door, rapped gently on the screen door,  
and was told by Mae's tired voice to come in. She did. 

Agent Music sat with Mae at the table off the kitchen, Katherine in  
a playpen Mulder and Victor had bought in Farmington, her blonde head  
and bright smile peeking over the side. 

"Dana," Mae called from the table. She was sitting stiff in her  
chair, Music across from her, a legal pad in front of him scribbled  
with notes. 

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" she asked, and Music smiled up at  
her, though it looked a bit strained.

"No," he said. "We're all done for today, I think." He pushed the  
chair back, looking very much like one of Victor's ranch hands -- blue  
T-shirt and stiff, new-looking jeans. Only his 9mm in a shoulder  
holster gave away who and what he was. 

"I can come back," Scully tried again.

"No," Music said, more firmly. "We've gotten as far as we're going  
to get. And besides..." He winked at Scully, not rogueish but  
playful. "Victor said he's going to teach me how to ride." 

Scully chuckled softly. "Be afraid, Frank," she said. "Be very  
afraid." 

Music laughed, touched her upper arm with the pad, and turned to  
Mae. 

"Tomorrow?" he asked, and Mae looked up at him, pinched and deeply  
sad. 

"Yes," she said softly. "Tomorrow." 

And Music left the house. 

Katherine made a loud cry from the playpen, and Mae rose as if given  
her cue, went to the baby, lifting her up and out.

"She's hungry," Mae said, and she seemed unable to meet Scully's  
eyes, which bothered Scully. "She's been good while Agent Music and  
I were talking. I don't blame her for being a bit restless now." 

Mae sat at the table again, began undoing the buttons of her blouse,  
and Scully sat across from her, in the chair that Music had vacated. 

Once Mae had gotten Katherine to calm, the baby nursing quietly, her  
tiny hands on Mae's chest, Mae finally looked up at Scully. 

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm just..." She trailed off.

"You feel guilty," Scully finished for her, and Mae's face fell as  
she nodded. 

"A bit like Confession," she said, and laughed nervously. "Rattling  
the family bones."

"It's going to help us," Scully offered, fingering the corner of the  
ratty placemat on the cheap wood table. "It's going to help us both  
get home faster if you can talk about the things you know. You know  
that." 

"'Home'?" Mae said, something bitter in her voice. "Where the hell  
is that for me then? You've got a home. A life to go back to. What  
have I got? This trailer is as close to a home as I'm going to get,  
before this whole bloody mess is over and they cart me and the  
children off to God-only-knows where."

Scully looked down, her face falling. "I'm sorry," she said. "I  
shouldn't have said that."

Mae blew out a frustrated breath, looking down into Katherine's  
serene face, her face evening out from its angry mask. 

"No, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I shouldn't be angry with you.   
You're doing all you can to help me in this. I don't mean to take it  
out on you. I've got no one to blame for the mess I'm in but myself."

"You're doing what you can," Scully offered, though she knew it  
sounded hollow. 

Mae didn't seem to hear her, her eyes on Katherine. She began to  
rock slowly from side to side, stroking the baby's wispy hair. 

"She looks more like Joe every day," Mae said. "The look in her  
eyes. The set of her face." 

Scully swallowed, looking at the baby. She had not known Porter for  
long, but looking at the baby, she could tell Mae was right. 

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I can't imagine...what that must be  
like." 

"You don't want to imagine," Mae replied, and looked up into  
Scully's face, the women's eyes meeting. "I know it's hard enough on  
you not having Mulder here. You don't want to think about it." 

Scully looked away, down at the baby in her arms. Her brows crooked  
as she thought. 

"Where would you go?" she asked after a moment. 

"What?" Mae asked, shaking her head in confusion. 

"If you could go anywhere," Scully continued. "With the children.   
Where would you go? Where would 'home' be for you?" 

Mae looked out the screen door, past Scully, onto a land Scully knew  
she would never see. The look of longing on the other woman's face  
told her that. 

"I'd go back to Ireland," Mae said softly. "Take Sean and Katherine  
and go back to Belfast or Ballycastle. Start again."

Scully nodded. "Do you think that you might do that? After your  
sentence is served, after all of it's over?" 

Mae laughed bitterly. "I think the last place I'd be welcomed would  
be Northern Ireland. By the IRA or the Brits. And I wouldn't do  
that to Sean. I don't want the legacy of being Owen's son to follow  
him there. I don't want that life for him. Any part of it."

"Mulder and A.D. Skinner have said that the IRA isn't after you.   
That they don't want you touched. You might be safe there."

Mae's gaze hardened. "What they say and what they mean are  
different things," she said dismissively. "Too much history there.   
Too much time spent working against the way things work. And I don't  
know what I'd do in the Peace. I don't know any other kind of life  
than the one I lived there. Than...this." She nodded toward the room  
around her, a hiding place on the run. 

Scully looked at her, picking at the edge of the placemat. "You  
could change, Mae," she said softly. "You *have* changed already.   
You could make a life there."

Mae stood suddenly, jostling the baby, who squealed at the movement.  
"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Mae snapped. "This is the  
life I've got now and I've got to live with it. I can't go dreaming  
about things I can't have." Her eyes welled. "It's like dreaming  
Joe will come back. It's not going to happen. Not ever." 

And she stalked off into the living room, leaving Scully behind at  
the table, Scully's eyes down, frustration piquing her. 

Then, a tickling in her head. 

Her hand went to her forehead as if to smooth it away...

 

(Sunlight through windows. The bedroom, her and Mulder's house.   
Bars of light on the bed, on Mulder's back where she looks over his  
shoulder, her teeth on his skin...

"Yes..." he whispers into her hair. "Scully...yes..."

More tickling, a sense of movement. 

"Mulder," she says on a breath. "She's awake. She's coming down  
the hall." 

Mulder shaking in her arms, a stifled cry against her throat. Then  
he rolls off her quickly, ends up spooned behind her, his face still  
buried in her hair, his breathing heavy. 

The bedroom door creaks open. 

"Mommy?" Light, like a bell. 

She looks at the door and sees...

Rose. Three or four. A nightgown to her ankles covered with  
strawberries, red on white.

"What is it, Rose?" She hears her own voice say it.

The little girl, dark hair trailing down her back, long...

"Are you hugging?" Rose asks, rubbing at her eyes. Morning. Early. 

"Yes, honey," Mulder says from behind her. "We're hugging."

The little girl touches the doorframe, a finger against her chin.   
"Can I come, too?"

Scully feels her naked skin, dewed with sweat beneath the covers,  
Mulder's bare body against her. 

"Where's Casey?" she hears herself ask.

"In my room," Rose answers, pointing behind her. 

"Go dress Casey in her daytime clothes and come back with her and  
you can get in bed with us," Mulder says softly, his voice patient.   
Gentle.

"Okay." And then Rose is gone.

Mulder's lips on her throat, her cheek. Heavy breath.

"Five minutes," he whispers. "Get dressed...")

 

"Dana?" 

Scully snapped herself back, drawing in a sharp breath as her hands  
shot out onto the table in front of her, steadying her. She looked  
up, her eyes wide, into Mae's face, who was standing just beside her,  
Katherine still clutched to her chest. 

"What?" she asked. "What is it?"

Mae looked as wide-eyed as she felt, her mouth agape. "You were  
talking just then. Talking to Mulder. To your baby. You called her  
by her name. And you asked me where someone named 'Casey' was." Mae  
shifted Katherine slightly. "Are you all right?"

Scully felt heat rising in her face, looked around the room, trying  
to ground herself. 

"Yes," she said, and rose a little too quickly, unsteady on her  
feet. Mae put a hand out to steady her, clutching the baby with the  
other hand. 

"Easy," Mae said. "Easy now. What's wrong?"

Scully shook her off, taking a step back. "I'm fine," she said  
quickly. "Fine. I just need...I need to go back to the house."

"Dana, what's happening?" Mae called as Scully went for the door.   
"This is like what happened when Katherine the other day, isn't it?   
Tell me what's wrong." 

"It's nothing," Scully said quickly, firmly, opening the screen  
door. 

Mae still calling after her, her head swimming, sweat beading her  
forehead, she went out of the house and back out into the light. 

 

******

OUTSIDE OMAGH   
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.   
MARCH 28 (10 DAYS LATER)   
11:35 p.m.

 

"Turn! Turn!" 

Skinner's voice hissed into the darkness, Mulder hearing it from his  
left side as Skinner gripped the dashboard, half-turned toward the  
back as he watched the headlights raking the rough road behind them.  
The car behind them was moving fast, and Mulder pressed down on his  
own car's accelerator, taking the turnoff to his right too fast and  
sending Renahan nearly tumbling sideways in the small back seat. 

Not surprisingly, Renahan, stinking of Scotch, laughed. 

"Mr. Mulder, you're not going to lose them," he said in his thick  
cockney, slightly slurring. "They've got you now and they're not  
going to let you go." 

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Mulder spat, flooring it into a  
straightaway, no lights anywhere but his own lights and the streaks  
behind him, a quarter of a mile back and gaining. His hands gripped  
the steering wheel, his eyes wide open and fixed on Renahan's ragged  
face in the rear view mirror.

"Don't you think it's even a BIT amusing?" Renahan replied. "I mean,  
you two poking around like the bloody F.B. fucking I. in the middle  
of a pub in the heart of the IRA, and then being surprised when  
someone comes after you for it?" He laughed again, and Mulder  
seethed. 

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Renahan," Skinner bit out, turning to face  
the other man. "If you could quit acting like you're enjoying this so  
goddamn much it would help immensely." 

But Renahan only laughed again. 

Mulder bit his lip, shaking his head slowly, feeling the comfortable  
weight of his Sig at his side beneath his jacket. He pushed the car  
forward, as if willing it with his eyes onto the road ahead of him.  
Faster. Faster.

The car behind them gained, the high-pitched whine of a small engine  
pushed too hard. Around them, nothing but countryside, no houses,  
nothing. He knew from the drive in that there were low mountains off  
in the distance, mountains he was heading toward as he drove the car  
west, further away from Omagh and into the vastness around it.

Ten days. Ten days in this car with these two, going from town to  
town, sleeping in rooms over pubs or in the houses of strangers who  
let rooms by the night, people who frowned at their accents, handed  
them towels and sent them into dark rooms that smelled of old smoke  
and dust. He was worn to the bone, his nerves frayed. Too much time  
with Renahan, and too much time in the back rooms of pubs talking to  
people who did not want to talk to him, and who gave up little, if  
anything at all.

Whatever you say, he remembered the poet once saying, say nothing. 

"Renahan, tell me what to do," he said finally, his voice just loud  
enough to be heard over the engine sounds, both of their own car and  
the one now almost on their tail.

Renahan was still looking at him, the older man's eyes glinting,  
wide and wet, from the back seat. 

The car behind them caught up, and with a lurch bumped against their  
tail. Mulder swung into the right lane, but the car followed, its  
highbeams flashing.

"Tell me what to do!" Mulder shouted, every muscle in his body taut. 

"Pull over." The smile was gone from Renahan's face now, though his  
eyes were still amused.

"Pull over??" Skinner replied, incredulous. 

"You're going to bloody well end up on the side of the road one way  
or the other," Renahan said, sounding almost bored. "Best to pull  
over on your own."

The car behind them tapped again, a sound of metal on metal, a dull  
thud, and Mulder swung the car back into the left lane, the pursuing  
vehicle staying and trying to draw the drivers' windows even. 

"Do it, Mr. Mulder," Renahan said. "Before we've got a right mess  
here."

Mulder glanced at the car gaining beside him, at Renahan, then at  
Skinner. 

Finally, he nodded, and his foot stomped on the brake as he pulled  
the car hard to the left and onto the side of the road, green coming  
into the headlights, the long grass of early spring. A sheep darted  
out of sight in the headlights.

The car that had been chasing them had likewise braked and was  
backing up down the road with great speed. Mulder reached down and  
took out his gun, Skinner doing the same.

"Put them away!" Renahan sputtered, leaning forward and pushing  
Skinner's gun out of sight. "You're going to get us all killed that  
way! We're not in bloody Tombstone! Goddamn Yanks--"

"I'm not going to just sit here and let these people--" Mulder  
jumped in.

"They're here to scare you, not to kill you," Renahan interrupted.  
"But they see those guns and they'll think differently. Now do as I  
say!"

The car had stopped on the other side of the road, the door swinging  
open, and four figures piled out into the dark, moving across the  
road.

"NOW!" Renahan hissed, and Mulder, seeing the men coming toward him,  
glanced at Skinner and put his gun away. Skinner, obviously  
reluctant, did the same.

Hands on the window, a fist rapping on the thin glass.

"Out of the fucking car!" the man said, and when Mulder looked up,  
he saw the a ski mask, only eyes, the dot of a nose and lips pushed  
too big by the fabric pushing through. 

There was another man behind him, a crowbar in his hand, and the  
other two had gone to Skinner's side of the car. Mulder looked over  
and saw the blunt end of a very old looking pistol pointed at  
Skinner's side. 

"Come on, OUT! OUT!" the man said to Mulder's right. "And get those  
fucking hands where we can see them!"

The door was yanked open, and rough hands reached in, grabbing  
Mulder around the collar and hauling him out onto the road. He  
reached up and gripped the fists around his jacket, pulling hard. 

"Get your goddamn hands off me--" he began as he broke away,  
knocking the first man down.

Then a sharp pain against the side of this head, and he toppled down  
next to the car onto his side holding his head, his breath hissing  
out against the gravel, his eyes on the shoes of the man with the  
crowbar. 

Black boots. Military issue. Blurring in and out of vision...

"Mulder!" he heard Skinner call from the other side of the car. The  
other man's voice seemed to echo slightly.

The first man -- the one who had spoken and who was clearly the  
leader -- picked himself up off the ground, brushing himself off. He  
stood next to Mulder, his feet, also clad in black boots, coming into  
Mulder's view. 

"Don't touch me again, fucker," he snarled, and kicked out, knocking  
Mulder's shoulder and forcing Mulder back onto his back. Mulder  
stared up at him, feeling the wetness of blood seeping into his hair  
above his ear. 

He blinked, his head swimming, and tried to force his eyes to focus. 

"Gun!" 

The alarmed call came from one of the men searching Skinner, and  
Mulder stared up into the surprised faces of the two above him, their  
eyes in their masked faces wide. The leader's face shot down to  
Mulder.

"Search him," he ordered, and took the crowbar from the other man,  
who bent and began rifling through Mulder's jacket, his shirt. It  
didn't take him long to find the Sig, which he held up, and the  
leader took it. 

"See if that stinking fuck in the back seat has got something on  
him, as well," the leader said, and Mulder could hear Renahan chuckle  
mirthlessly as he was hauled out of the car with much commotion. 

"Easy, boys, easy now..." Renahan was saying, and Mulder heard the  
sudden sound of Renahan's body striking the trunk of the car as he  
was searched. 

The leader was still looking down at Mulder, Mulder's own gun  
trained on him now. 

"Get up," he ordered. "Now."

When Mulder didn't move immediately, the bigger man who'd held the  
crowbar reached down and hauled Mulder up, setting him on his feet  
and smashing his back against the car. Skinner and Renahan were  
hustled around to flank him on either side, the four masked men  
standing in front of them, three guns trained on their three forms. 

"What do you want?" Skinner snapped, all A.D., his hand going out to  
Mulder's shoulder as Mulder swayed slightly. "Just who the hell do  
you think you are, trying to run us off the road and--"

"Shut the fuck up," the leader said, holding his gun up level with  
Skinner's face, and Skinner did. "What I want to know is who the  
bloody hell YOU are, asking questions that shouldn't be asked all  
over half the fucking countryside, eh?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mulder said, his hand on  
his head, which he pulled down as he stood up straighter, though his  
hand was stained with blood. "And if I did, it wouldn't be your  
business anyway."

The leader's eyes pinned him, the gun staying on Skinner's face, who  
he clearly saw as more of a threat than Mulder on his rubber knees.  
"Anyone asking questions about Eamon Neill is my business," the man  
said, a dangerous rumble in his voice. 

That was when Mulder saw it -- a thin scar, thin as a knife blade,  
down the man's distended lower lip. 

It was the same scar the red-haired man at the bar had worn, the one  
behind the table where Mulder had sat with Renahan and Skinner and a  
man named Joey Flannan, who smoked a pipe and let almost nothing but  
smoke come from between his chapped lips. 

"No, no Eamon around here," Flannan had said, his face weathered as  
though he'd spent his life on the sea. The words leaked from his  
lips, his mouth barely moving, and his eyes set on Mulder's face.

"I know you knew him, Joey," Renahan had said, taking a sip from his  
highball glass of Glenfiddich. "You. Seamus Hanson. A few of the  
boys. Tipped off by Eamon Neill about that bloke who got tea every  
morning at The Exchange in Derry."

Flannan's eyes had gone to Renahan, though the rest of his body  
didn't move. Smoke gathered around his face.

Renahan smiled a smile that looked like it had been drawn on with  
crayon. "Killed that little ginger-haired bastard postman by mistake,  
didn't you?" he said. "Only knew 'ginger hair' and 'uniform' and  
opened fire on a man with a wife and a baby just come, didn't you?" 

Flannan still didn't move. "I've got nothing to say to you, Mr.  
Renahan," he said softly, and then his lip did curl a bit, as though  
pinched. 

Mulder had leaned forward then, nearly knocking over the pint of  
Guinness he hadn't touched. "Mr. Flannan, we don't care about your  
involvement with anything," he said, glaring at Renahan. "And we  
don't mean Eamon Neill any harm. We just want to talk to him. That's  
all. Just talk." 

That's when the man at the bar had caught his eye. A young man. Red  
hair. Eyes like arctic ice and freckles, and a scar down his lip,  
trailing down his chin. When the man had seen Mulder looking at him,  
he'd turned away, back to the bartender, who'd been watching, as well.

"Mr. Flannan, please," Mulder had said then, and he felt something  
rising in him, something akin to desperation. So many days. Too much  
time with Renahan and his gruffness and his taunting. Too many dead-  
ends, and towns and men who would not speak. "Please. This is about  
my wife. That's all. It's about my wife."

But Flannan hadn't swayed. He'd stood, pushing the chair back,  
holding onto his pipe in the corner of his mouth. He nodded to  
Renahan. "I've got nothing to say to any of you," he said, and,  
picking up his pint, he'd wandered away. 

The man at the bar had turned and looked at Mulder once again, met  
Mulder's eye, then turned away.

Now, his breath puffing out in front of his face in the cool of the  
night, Mulder looked at the scar on the chin, recognized the strange  
blue of the eye in the dim, obtuse light of the headlights. 

"Now the two of you," the man said, pointed to Renahan and Skinner,  
"are going to get in that car over there." He nodded to the car he  
and the others had come in. "And you..." He stared at Mulder. "You're  
going to get back into this one and drive with me."

"We're federal agents with the American government," Skinner rushed  
in. "You can't--"

"I don't give a fuck who you are," the man snapped, and he pressed  
the gun closer to Skinner's face. "Now go. Get in the car." 

"Where are we going?" Mulder said, his voice rising. "Where are you  
taking us?"

Now the man's face changed, even beneath the mask. Hardened. 

"Those two miserable fucks are going back to Omagh," he said,  
jerking a nod toward Renahan and Skinner. 

"But you," he said, and now he turned the gun to Mulder, and the  
man's mouth bore a predatory smile. 

"You're coming with me."

 

*********

END OF CHAPTER 11a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11b. 

 

*****

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
MARCH 29  
5:32 a.m.

 

The sun coming up over the ridge of mountains that wreathed the desert, the whole world a burnt amber,   
Paul Granger walked along the sandy road that split the wash out behind Victor Hosteen's property, a vast   
expanse of sagebrush and yucca and nothingness. He wore faded jeans dusted with sand like ash, a   
sweatshirt from Johns Hopkins, the waist of which was frayed, the lettering dotted away from 10 years'   
worth of washes. It was still cold from the night, the desert holding no heat, and the sun seemed almost wan   
in the way it was rising through a thin layer of cloud, the moon still a claw hooked in the deep blue of the   
night sky to west.

Granger looked up as he walked, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a long thin branch he was using   
both as a walking stick and also as a crook of sorts to tap the sheep in front of him into a jumble of woolen   
bodies that bleated plaintively as he touched their sides. Several wore bells, and the muffled sounds of their   
jangling rose into the brisk air.

They were coming up over a rise, one of the few on the property, a fairly sharp incline when compared to   
the flatness of the rest of the land. The sheep moved up it, zigging and zagging as Granger moved them   
back together with his stick, and he wished, as they rose, that he'd taken Victor's advice and ridden one of   
the horses from the stable to do this task of moving the sheep from the pens behind Victor's brother Keel's   
house back to their home base on Victor's ranch.

It hadn't seemed a long walk when Granger had gone the mile to get them, but now, coming back, it felt a   
great distance, a heavy burden of miles.

Robin was on his mind this morning, as she was most mornings since he'd arrived in New Mexico, the   
image of her lying in their bed beneath the heath-green sheets clear in his mind, a smile on his face. Then   
he was thinking of a night from last autumn, the weekend she'd cooked a recipe from the Gastronome   
Cookbook he'd given her for her birthday. The dish had a name he couldn't pronounce and in the end it   
didn't matter what it was, didn't matter a bit, because they'd stopped in the middle of her making it to make   
love instead on the broad cherry table off the kitchen.

He remembered the peals of her laughter as the room had filled with light grey smoke, the smoke detector   
screaming its shrill alarm as they kissed.

Granger was still thinking this as he reached the top of the incline, a nice view of light bleeding over the   
landscape, and that was when the pain struck him in the center of his chest, a squeezing inside him, a rush   
of burning that bloomed in him like a terrible flower, and it was only the staff that kept him from falling.   
Instead, he slid down it to one knee, then the other, his breath catching and a low moan coming up from his   
throat. He clenched his eyes closed against it, his teeth bearing down, his hand on his chest as though he   
meant to claw the pain out.

"Breathe..." he rasped. "Just breathe..."

His pulse roared in his ear, and his face felt full and hot, the pain coursing through him, a lightness in his   
head. His stomach roiled, bile rising in his throat, and he had to staunch the urge to vomit. He reached up   
and swiped at his forehead, knocking his glasses off in the process, and held his hand over his eyes, willing   
the pain away.

His pills were a mile away, hidden in his shaving bag at Victor's place. He kicked himself for not having   
them with him, at least one, tucked in the fifth pocket of his jeans.

Breathe, he told himself again, this time silently, and he concentrated on slowing his heart rate as best he   
could, as slowing it, being calm, would help the pain. That's what the doctor had said, at least. The doctor   
had said little about how to stave off his panic, though, the terror that gripped him when he wondered if this   
would be the last time he would feel this, if his world were going to fade to the sound of his heartbeat and a   
warm feeling in his chest that would spread until it blotted out the rest of his life.

The infection that had taken over his heart shortly after his surgery had come swiftly, his chest filled with   
blood from a severed artery and swelling as a fever had taken him over after the first couple of days in the   
ICU. Robin would never know how close he'd come to dying from the infection that had overrun him; he'd   
forbidden the doctors from telling her or his mother, the elder woman hanging onto the side of his bed like   
a tattered old bird, her dry hand on his cheek.

He'd forbidden the doctor from telling either woman of the prognosis afterwards, as well, the percentage of   
damage to the broad muscle of his heart, the lack of integrity in the vessels surrounding it from the tearing   
of the bullet through his chest. The time that he might have, and that he might not have, left.

He'd told them nothing. None of them. His doctor, a kindly, older man, had reluctantly cleared Granger for   
light duty, talked quietly about transplant options and possibilities and time, the things he knew and the   
things he didn't, and then he'd let Granger go when Granger had said he wanted nothing more than to get   
back to what was left of his life.

There on the road he thought of all this, the pain beginning to ebb slightly, sweat cold on his forehead. He   
thought of Robin, thousands of miles between them and her even further than that away in the land of the   
truths he would not speak. Everyone was there in that lost land -- his mother, his friends. Mulder and   
Scully. Rosen and Skinner. He felt like a man living on a ship that never saw a harbor, alone in a way he'd   
never felt before.

The sheep mingled around him, unsure, soft sounds coming from them, the hollow sounds of bells.

They were enough to pull him back to the present. Finally, he dropped his hand from in front of his face   
and looked at the animals, pulled in a less painful breath, leaned on the walking stick and managed to come   
up onto just one knee. Shaking his head to clear the pain away, to ground himself, he rubbed at his chest,   
sweat sticking his sweatshirt to his body, and then reached down and lifted his glasses carefully off the   
sand. He righted them on his face, mindful of the pain in his shoulder, as well, and stood slowly, brushed at   
his pants, and waited for the sudden fatigue to wan.

A couple of sheep were off to the right, meandering through the brush on the way to the desert to the side   
of the road. Willing his feet to move, Granger stumbled toward them, tapped them, called out, gathered   
them back with the others, and then moved back down the road, the sun full-on the sand now, bathing   
everything with warmth and light.

 

**********

 

11 SAMUEL STREET, #3  
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.  
6:35 a.m.

 

Rain pattering on the windows of the tiny rented flat, Christie Collin lay beneath the thin blankets of his   
bed, a woman whom he knew only as Bridget asleep beside him facing the wall. His eyes were on the thin   
line of a scar that traced down the back of her shoulder, each side of it dotted with stitch scars, though the   
scar itself was wide and fairly jagged.

A sloppy bit of work, he decided, and he inched a bit away from her, toward his own edge of the bed.

He didn't know why he'd picked her up at the pub the night before. There was something about her that had   
reminded him of someone, a face that seemed familiar but that he couldn't quite place. She'd been drunk   
when he'd met her, his friend John Finney introducing them. A few rounds of darts with her watching, a   
small predatory smile on her face as she swung back another pint, and he'd simply waited as the pub began   
to close, her against the bar on the far side. He'd gone to her and taken her by the arm and led her out and   
onto the dank streets, off to his place for the night.

The sex had been quick. Empty. Just after 2:00 a.m., she'd mumbled something about work and called him   
by the wrong name as she drifted off to sleep.

Now he only remembered her eyes -- blue. And the red of her hair, a plait of his drifting on the pillow   
toward him like tendrils. Looking at them, at the angry relief of the scar, he swung his legs over the side of   
the bed and rose, nude, into the light coming in from the street.

His military boxers were at the foot of the bed. Stepping into them, he walked into the adjoining room, a   
kitchen and a small den, the television still on and talking to no one. Going for it, he turned it off and the   
room fell into a silence broken only by the rain.

He stood in the midst of it, listening, still as stone.

He missed the life in Curragh Camp, his life with the Rangers, the Cciathan Fhiannoglaigh an Airm. He and   
Roy Killian would have been up hours ago, making tea on the hotplate in the barracks, waiting for Sergeant   
Malley to come in beating a metal trashcan to wake the others for the morning run. Or he'd be waking in a   
forest, his face painted tan and green and the world smelling of loam and the oil on his A196 rifle, his first   
sight the view of the valley from the ridge.

There in the rain, smelling the heavy scent of sausage cooking from the flat across the hall, he missed his   
life as it had been before with something tinged with anger that sunk into him and burned.

He'd learned not be easily startled, so when the phone began to ring he simply went for it, picking up the   
black handle from its cradle and placing it against his ear.

"Aye," he said, his voice low, graveled with fatigue.

"Christie?" The papery voice. The slight wheeze. His grandmother's voice. "Are you dressed?"

He looked down at himself, felt color rising in his face.

"Aye," he said again. "Just up and getting ready to make the tea. Is something wrong?"

A wispy breath, and his grandmother continued. "There are two men asking questions, I'm told. Two   
Americans. They've got Mr. Renahan with them and they're trying to find out who's responsible for the   
trouble."

She paused, out of breath, and he waited. He'd expected questions, but Renahan? The name was as old as   
he was. He didn't think the man could ever come back from the dead.

"What should I do?" he asked.

"I want you back in the south," came the reply. "Today. Take a car and go across the border. There's a man   
you're going to stay with. Outside Dublin. Riggs is his name. You'll meet him at the Cloniffe Bed &   
Breakfast and he'll tell you where to go from there."

"You're sure?" he said, the most vociferous a protest he could muster. He said it under his breath.

"Of course," his grandmother replied, her voice cracking, like a crow's. "I wouldn't send you away lightly,   
would I?"

"Aye, I reckon you wouldn't," he said, and forced a smile onto his face so it would touch his voice. "I'll be   
on my way then."

"And Christie?"

"Yes?"

A pause. "You shouldn't let strange women into your flat or into your bed."

He froze, looked behind at Bridget from the doorway, a chill running through him.

"Goodbye, Christie."

And then the line went dead.

 

**********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
9:12 a.m.

 

The black dog wandered down the dirt road that connected Albert Hosteen's house to Victor's, his head   
down, his long black tail tucked tightly between his legs. He darted from one side of the road to the other,   
his nose busy on any scrap of anything he encountered, the road littered here and there with blowing scraps   
of paper and soda cans.

Scully watched Bo making his way down the road, her hand on the small of her back as she walked, the   
tails of the plaid shirt Albert Hosteen had purchased for her at the Target in town flapping in a wind that   
whipped sand into small clouds in front of her. She wore maternity jeans, a pair of boots, her hair pulled   
back into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

The baby jutted out in front of her, a perfect mound, making her feel a bit off balance. Rose was growing   
quickly, despite Scully's lack of appetite and fatigue. As Scully walked, she felt the baby roll over inside   
her, head-up to head-down, a lazy motion that made Scully smile. The tautness in her back as she leaned   
slightly stood in stark contrast to her daughter's ease inside her.

Bo made a beeline for lump of trash off to the right side, cluttering the base of a rough patch of sagebrush.   
He whined softly as he discovered nothing there of interest, looked back at her with his oil eyes. Scully   
might have wondered if he was hungry had she not just fed him. There was no consoling him the past few   
days. He'd been spending more and more time outside the house, disappearing for hours into the space   
Albert Hosteen's house, coming back looking tired and afraid. He was reminding Scully of the stories   
Mulder had told about how the dog was when Mulder had first found him -- a black ghost haunting the area   
around the ranch.

"Bo," she called, a bit singy, and patted her thigh. The dog stopped at the sound of his name and, still   
tucked in on himself, trotted up to her side, pressing the top of his head into the palm of her outstretched   
hand.

"It's okay," she murmured, rubbing his ears. If she could have comfortably knelt down she would have, just   
to get her face closer to the dog's. As it was, she simply bent and stroked his head, listening to his faint   
whining, until his tail came out and waved slightly in recognition, in something like ease.

She smiled down to him, though it made her sad to do it. The dog was like the part of herself that felt   
Mulder's absence so acutely. It was as if that part of her had crept out of her body during the night and   
drifted into the dog's dark body.

Pushing the thought aside, steeling herself, she straightened and began to walk again, Victor's house in   
sight now, the dingy buildings and the rising cloud of dust coming from the corral, the smell of the place   
drifting to her on the wind. She'd grown to like the heavy smell, to associate it with the cocoon of this   
place.

Albert Hosteen had left early in the morning, Sara cooking Scully's breakfast as she also did Hosteen's   
laundry in the battered Maytags off the back of the house. Sara had told her about a dream she'd had the   
night before, something about turning into a dove, and she'd finished the strange, unsolicited tale by turning   
to Scully, a knowing smile on her face, and saying:

"Tell me about your dreams, Agent Scully. Tell me."

Scully had looked at her, something in her rattled, that feeling one gets when another has somehow seen   
too much, and she'd withdrawn, mumbling something about a shower and a walk to Victor's place.

The walk had helped to ease her mind a bit, though her nagging worry about Mulder stayed with her as she   
and Bo entered the collection of structures that made up the ranch.

No e-mail from him in days, and the last only a brief note. Something about him and Skinner and this man   
Renahan staying at a Protestant man's house outside a town called Ballymena. He was on his way out to a   
meeting with someone, an informant of Renahan's, and couldn't write for long. She gathered he was getting   
little sleep, moving a lot, sometimes all night, criss-crossing and backtracking across the country. He'd told   
her he loved her, though even in the black on white of the computer screen the words had sounded sad.   
He'd promised to write as soon as he could.

But since then -- six days ago -- nothing.

She was trying to push the worry away, but it was pressing down on her. The what-ifs were beginning to   
circle her head like birds.

"Dana," came a voice from her right, Mae's voice, and the fussy sounds of Katherine in her mother's arms.   
Scully had been so deep in thought she hadn't seen Mae come around Victor's house.

Scully forced another smile onto her face, and Mae did the same. It was a common gesture they did for   
each other, this attempt to pretend that everything was all right. Scully thought that Mae was better at it   
than she was, and she didn't envy the woman her ability to wear such a mask.

"Just stretching your legs, or looking for someone?" Mae asked, bouncing Katherine slightly to try to hush   
her impending cries.

"Just walking," Scully replied, and Bo fell in right beside her, sitting up against her leg. "I thought I'd come   
down and see how you all were, what you were up to."

Mae nodded toward the stables. "Mr. Hosteen came early and go Sean. They're in the small corral with that   
pony and Mr. Hosteen's horse. I was watching them until Katherine needed a change."

Scully nodded, met Mae's eyes, her face growing serious. "Has he spoken to you?"

Mae's face fell, the mask slipping as though her expression were attached with string.  
"No," she replied, her voice tinged with anger and her accent growing clipped. "And it's not right. I'm ready   
to put my foot down with him. It's been over a month. Enough is enough."

Scully put a hand out, brushing Mae's arm. "Mae, you heard what Granger said. Mr. Hosteen's methods   
may be unorthodox, but he's moving Sean in the right direction."

They'd eaten at Mae's house -- she and Granger -- while Albert Hosteen had had Sean out for the day, off   
somewhere in the desert. Mae had been fretting as the sun had started to fall low on the horizon, a simple   
dinner of beef stew and fry bread. Sara, who was staying with Victor at night now, had made the bread, and   
Mae had made the Irish stew. Granger, looking haggard, had tried to explain Sean's condition to Mae --   
something he called Selective Mutism.

"Why the bloody hell does he feel it's all right to talk to a fucking pony and not to me?" Mae had burst out   
with after listening for a few minutes to Granger's psychospeak.

"Mae, he has to talk to who or what he trusts right now," Granger had soothed, Scully nearly dropping her   
spoon with the suddenness and volume of Mae's words.

"Why can't he trust me? I'm the only family he's got. Katherine and I are all he's got. Not Mr. Hosteen. And   
certainly not a horse."

Granger had put his spoon down then, touched the nosepiece of his glasses to push them up and cleared his   
throat. "Mae, I think he talks to the pony because he knows the pony won't talk back. I think that's what he   
needs right now. To just be *heard*. And by someone or something that isn't involved with any of the   
things in his life that he's finding to painful to speak about. He's lost so much. And everyone in his life is   
associated with that loss. Except Mr. Hosteen and the pony he gave him. You need to let this take its time."

"He blames me," Mae replied. "That's why he won't speak to me."

"Mae, after what he's been through, I think he blames everything," Scully offered softly. "Starting with   
Owen, and going right through us all."

Mae had stared at her, unconvinced and fighting back tears, and had finally risen and gone to the sink. They   
hadn't spoken of it again.

Now, bouncing Katherine on her hip, Mae relented again, though her expression was still pained. Every   
day that went by, Scully saw Mae's anger growing more and more intense. Her anger at the situation and at   
her own helplessness.

"How are *you*?" Mae asked, glancing down at her belly.

"I'm fine," Scully said automatically, rubbing the mound of the baby.

"You don't look like you've slept," Mae replied doubtfully.

"No, I'm fine," she said again. "She's keeping up some. Moving a lot. That's all."

"It's more than that," Mae said, her voice dropping. "You're having strange dreams."

Scully went still, searching Mae's eyes, feeling exposed.

Since that day ten days ago when she'd seen Rose as a child, her doll Casey in her arms outside she and   
Mulder's bedroom, she'd hadn't seen anything else of her daughter's life.

But there were other things she'd seen, asleep. She'd seen a man in her dreams. A young man in a white   
sweater on a phone in an airport. She'd seen another man. A man with a beard and shaggy hair. Wild eyes.   
Brown sweatshirt and brown pants.

And a gun. Pointed at her.

She'd heard the screaming. A child's. And her own.

Then the old man, sitting in his wheelchair, his hand outstretched.

(Come with me, Dana. Come with me....)

Scully composed herself, pushing all of that away, rubbing her belly like a charm.

"No, no dreams," she lied, and she could tell from the look on Mae's face that the other woman saw the lie   
for what it was, and was about to say so.

"Let's look in on Sean and Mr. Hosteen," Scully said, interrupting Mae before she could start.

The deflection worked. Mae's face hardened again, and she turned and started down the road toward the   
stables, Scully following, and Bo trailing behind them like the shadow of a child.

 

**********

CLEW BAY  
OFF CLARE ISLAND  
REPUBLIC OF IRELAND  
10:03 a.m.

 

"Keep your fucking head down, I said!"

It was a hissed whisper, and was punctuated by the kick of a boot on the back of Mulder's neck. Mulder   
flattened himself onto the floor of the van he was riding in, his stomach swimming, the pressure of the foot   
on his neck growing stronger as a moan slipped up from his chest.

It wasn't the motion of the van moving over curving roads, the motion he'd had for most of the night, that   
was making him ill, but rather the current rocking of the vehicle. He'd felt the tell-tale bump of the van's   
tires as it has boarded a ferry, the blow of a boat whistle, and then nothing but the swell of waves.

Between the aching in his head and his tendency toward seasickness anyway, he didn't know how much   
more he could take without his stomach revolting, which he was sure wouldn't please his companions one   
bit.

Only one of his current "hosts" was familiar -- the man who'd led the group who had tried to run he and   
Skinner and that sonofabitch Renahan off the road outside Omagh. The others -- and the van -- were all   
new, picked up just before they'd crossed the border into Ireland, Mulder covered with a thick tarp and   
threatened into silence with a promise of a bullet as the border guards had questioned the driver.

Then hours on roads that felt like they'd been paved by the Roman Empire, struggling for breath and   
sweating beneath the tarp. Every time he'd spoken or tried to shift or rise, he'd paid for it. His body and face   
wore a collection of souvenirs from the attempts. His mouth tasted like blood.

So now, the van rocking and someone smoking a pipe that smelled like Christmas, the two men in the front   
laughing over some joke, Mulder put his head down all the way and tried to relax as much as he could. He   
was rewarded when the foot was removed from his neck.

"There's a good Yank," one of the men said softly, and one of the other men chuckled softly.

"Fucking git," came another voice, and Mulder had to hold his tongue or risk another hit.

The boat whistle blew again, and Mulder felt the ferry slow, bumping into the buoys that would guide it to   
the dock. The van's engine started, and after a moment the vehicle jostled off the ferry, revving up, and they   
were on their way again, onto another stretch of rough road.

After a few minutes, Mulder could tell by the noise of other cars, the starting and stopping, that they'd   
entered a town. It didn't take long to be through it, however, and then they were out again, bumping along,   
curving.

Then a turn. A gravel drive. Brakes squeaking as they stopped.

He heard the two doors open, then the side door slide open, sunlight flooding the darkened interior.

"Get him up," the leader said, and the canvas was pulled off Mulder's back, light hurting his eyes. The two   
men with him in the back grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him up and out onto the drive.

Squinting, one of his eyes swelling, Mulder looked at his surroundings. A small house, perched on the edge   
of a cliffside, the ocean beyond. There were trees around the house, partially hiding it from view. Smoke   
curled up from it, grey.

"Move," the leader said, and Mulder turned to look at him, taking in his red hair, the set of his face. The   
thin scar over his full lower lip.

Seeing Mulder seeming to memorize his face, the man grabbed Mulder's shoulder and shoved him toward   
the house.

Three steps up, and the door opened without anyone knocking.

A man stood there -- fifty or sixty. It was hard to tell. His face still had a boyish look to it, despite the grey   
beard, the high forehead, and the creases around his eyes. He wore a black fisherman's sweater, wide   
corduroy pants and boots on his feet. He was looking at Mulder, taking in his face, the blood crusted   
around his nose and mouth.

"Bring him in," the man said softly, a gentle tone to his voice that surprised Mulder, given the treatment   
he'd received at the hands of the other men.

The red-haired man with the scar shoved Mulder again, pushing him down a narrow hallway into a living   
room warm with a fire. A window to the side showed the ocean view, and there was music playing.   
Something soothing. Low voice and a guitar.

"Let him be," the house's occupant said quietly as the others stuffed Mulder into a chair. Outnumbered and   
more than a little unnerved, Mulder held his tongue and held still.

Like dogs, the other men backed away from Mulder, retreating the room's sides.

The older man turned and retrieved a pipe from the mantle, stuffed it with tobacco and gave it a light with a   
thick wooden match. There was a grandfather clock against the far wall, and it ticked loudly, sounding   
tired. When the man had his pipe lit, he moved until he stood in front of Mulder, towering over him in the   
chair, the pipe in the corner of his mouth.

His eyes were bright, inquisitive, a small smile on his face.  
"Why don't you tell me who I am," the man said, and he sound calm, almost amused.

Mulder looked at him. "You're Neill," he said. "Eamon Neill."

The man smiled wider, and Mulder swallowed, his hands clenching the arms of the chair. Though every   
inch of him hurt, he felt suddenly hopeful. Hopeful and still very much afraid.

 

**

 

The clock was still ticking, the same tired beat beneath the sound of  
an Irish folk singer and a guitar, as the silence stretched between  
Mulder and the man he had just fingered as Eamon Neill like a road.

The men who'd brought Mulder to this place an island, he  
guessed, from the ferry ride, the view out the large window facing  
the cliff the cottage sat on nothing but sea stood around,  
still as  
gargoyles and about as friendly, though the young man with the red  
hair and the scar on his lip looked more nervous than Mulder had seen  
him, gnawing on the scar as though the wound, long healed, still  
pained him somehow. 

Neill, who'd been pacing slowly, his steps soft sounds on the  
wood floor as he put one booted foot in front of the other before the  
fireplace, had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes down as if  
thinking, considering what to do. He looked up at the red-haired  
man, met his eyes, and then looked back down.

Mulder didn't move, didn't even shift in the chair  
where'd they sunk him, though his body was sore from the long  
ride,  
face-down, in the van. It still seemed he could feel the boot on the  
back of his neck, and his eye was swollen nearly closed, a puff that  
his father had called a "mouse" forming on his lower lid. 

Instead, he listened to the clock. He watched the pendulum, old  
brass, for a moment as it caught the light. He read the look on the  
red-haired man's face.

(Whatever you say, say nothing...)

The song ended and Mulder could hear the strange whine of a CD  
changing tracks. Neill seemed to find the sound his cue to stop and  
turned to Mulder again, though he didn't uncross his arms or  
change the curious expression on his face.

"Tell me what I want to know," he said, the same tone he used  
when he'd asked Mulder to tell him who he himself was. Not  
threatening. Curious as his face. Strange with something like  
warmth.

Mulder met his gaze, licked a crack in his lip that was crusted with  
blood. How much to tell, he wondered. How little.

"You want to know why I've been trying to find you,"  
Mulder answered. "Why I've been asking about you."

Neill didn't move. The clock kept ticking. Another song began.   
Penny whistle. A woman's voice, talking about farming a tough  
and beautiful land...

"Aye," Neill replied. It was little more than a whisper of  
sound.

Mulder glanced at the red-haired man again, back. 

"Not in front of them," he said, a bit of his usual  
confidence creeping back into his voice. 

He didn't know why he felt as though he had any power. Perhaps  
it was the juxtaposition of the men around him and the quietness he  
got off the man before him. Violence on the one hand and something  
that seemed to move against it in the other, though everything he  
knew of Neill told him this was not the case.

He did what he'd always done as he watched Neill consider. He  
trusted his instincts. He told himself that 99% of the time, they  
were right.

But that 1%...Jesus, could it be a bitch...

"How about you blokes go have a smoke?" Neill said at last,  
and the red-haired man began to protest. He got out one bleat of  
sound before Neill's hand came up and silenced him.

"Not now, Eagon," Neill said, firm but not unkind.  
"You've done a good bit so far and I'm grateful. But  
give me the  
room."

The man, Eagon, looked at Mulder, at the others, who were watching  
the exchange warily.

"Go on, boys," Neill said. "Go on." And, following  
Eagon, they left. 

At least now it's a fair fight, Mulder thought gravely, watched  
Neill reach for a pipe on the mantel, reach for tobacco in a worn  
leather pouch. Neill filled the pipe, facing away from Mulder,  
pressing the flakes down with his thumb.

"Tell me," Neill said as he put the pipe to his lips and  
struck a white-tip on the brick. A puff of smoke came up that  
smelled like sugar and wood.

Mulder swallowed. "I'm here about my wife," he said. It  
wasn't what he'd intended to say. He'd meant to say  
something else,  
but he couldn't remember what it was. He only knew what he felt,  
and  
it was that that he spoke from.

"Your wife?" the other man repeated, still not turning,  
looking into the fire.

"Yes," Mulder replied. "There was a bomb. In  
Washington. My wife was..." He hesitated. 

Truth or lie? 

Lie.

"My wife was killed," he finished. 

"Whatever it is," Neill said quickly but with the same soft  
tenor, "it's got nothing to do with me, I can tell you  
that."

Mulder ran the tone through his mind, as though he were turning it  
over for taste.

"You know," he said with conviction.

"Aye," Neill said, sounding tired. "I know. Scully.  
The one who brought Curran and The Path down in the States." He  
turned slowly. "That would make you Mulder. Fox Mulder." 

Mulder nodded. "Yes."

"F.B.I.," Neill added, looking hard at him.

"I'm not here as an agent," Mulder replied. "I'm  
not after you. I don't care what you've done or why. I  
don't care  
about your politics or your past."

The last came out more bitterly than he'd intended years of  
living at the mercy of this thing, this intruder in his life  
called "The Troubles" biting it out of him and Neill  
heard it,  
chuffed.

He moved forward, pipe in hand, and stood directly over Mulder,  
looking down, standing almost too close. Mulder was very much aware  
that Neill was standing and he was not. He was aware of the men  
outside the door.

"Your trouble is all about my politics, Mr. Mulder," he said.  
"You'd better start caring about them. Now whether it's  
about my  
past...that I can't tell you. That I don't know."  
Neill stepped  
away, took a pull from the pipe. A log fell in the fire.

"This is about Owen Curran," Mulder pressed "Someone  
associated with him. Are there any Path left?"

"No," Neill said, shaking his head. "Not here or up  
north or in the States. Curran did quite a job on them himself in  
that mess in Virginia. Quite a job. And to be frank, I can't  
think  
of anyone who would kill your wife for taking him out after that.  
Lots of families here still wearing black over that. Lots of  
families who think he deserved exactly what he got." 

He looked at Mulder. "The story here goes that your wife or you  
were the one who did him in. I can't see how someone would come  
after her or you because of that." 

"My wife didn't kill him," Mulder said grimly. "I  
didn't kill him. Someone else did."

Neill raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"I thought you would know," Mulder said quietly. "We  
never found who it was. Curran was trying to kill my wife, his  
sister Mae. Me."

Mulder reached down and raised the bottom of his shirt and sweater,  
exposing his belly to Neill. The incision scar and the pucker of the  
bullet hole stood out stark pink on his skin. 

"How did he die?" Neill said, his eyes flicking from the  
scar to Mulder's face as Mulder dropped his shirt. 

"A single shot. From somewhere high."

"Clean hit?"

"Half his head was gone." 

Neill nodded, gnawing on the end of his pipe and paced toward the  
fire slowly. "One of yours? Merc? Secret Agent Man?"

Mulder shook his head. "Neither. Another man was killed, too,  
and an agent wouldn't do that."

"Nor a merc," Neill added, breathing smoke. "It's  
one of ours, all right." He chuffed again mirthlessly.  
"Glad about  
that. Owen was a shame to his father and all the rest of us.   
Humiliating."

"Yeah, we were pretty...embarrassed by him, too," Mulder  
quipped. 

A smile touched Neill's mouth, his eyes...apologetic? Mulder  
couldn't quite tell. Neill took the pipe from his mouth and  
pointed  
it at Mulder's belly. "So I see." 

He went to the grate again, breathed deep from his pipe, billowed.   
The smoke hung around his face like a veil. He was silent for a long  
moment. Then he spoke. 

"Your wife's not dead."

Mulder's eyes got wide and he started to protest, but again the  
words he meant to say died in his throat. 

"No," he said simply.

"Quite a pony show on the tele, though. My hat's off."  
He'd turned at this point and gave Mulder a slight smile that  
crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Liked the white coffin.   
Innocence lost and all that." 

Mulder returned the smile and a laugh came up, though it pained his  
side. "Thanks," he said. 

Why do I trust you? he wanted to ask. As his eyes hung with  
Neill's, the other man's still hidden by the sheen of smoke  
as he  
continued that strange, warm smile, he thought of this. 

"I take it you've got her stowed away until you find  
who's doing this," Neill said as the CD squeaked its way to  
track  
four. A fiddle and a man's voice in Gaelic. 

"Yes," Mulder said.

The clock struck an off-key note, then another, counting off the  
hours. At the same time, from Neill's pocket, a chiming like an  
infant music box. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn  
but well-kept pocket watch attached to his belt with a small, gold-  
linked chain. He snapped open and then closed again. The music  
stopped, and Neill ran his hand over the surface.

"Was my father's," he said softly.

Mulder nodded. 

"Everything about me was my father's," Neill said, waving  
a hand to take in everything. "The house. The land it's on.  
Everything." He looked at Mulder meaningfully. "You  
understand me,  
Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "I understand you." 

"Sometimes what you do..." Neill continued. "Sometimes  
it's like your blood. Sometimes you can't stop it. It's  
like your  
heart in your chest."

Mulder had a sudden memory Samantha, three or four, frightened  
in a thunderstorm, crawling into bed beside him. Her small hands on  
his chest, a face against his shoulder.

"You know about family," Neill said, and Mulder snapped back  
to reality, surprised, as though fearing Neill had somehow read his  
mind. 

"Your wife," Neill continued. "You know what you'll  
do for family."

Mulder played the memory of Samantha over in his mind like a tape.   
He thought of Scully's face. Scully asleep in a car. The  
stakeout on Modell. Then again, after making love, her hair   
longer  
now a wave on the white pillow. Their bedroom. Their house.

"Anything," Mulder said at last. 

Neill nodded, went to the fireplace and tapped out the pipe into the  
embers there. They rained down and winked out. "Then you  
understand more about my politics and my past than you think."

Mulder swallowed, treading lightly. "Some of it," he agreed.

Neill looked at him, placed the pipe on the mantel on its tiny  
stand. "That's a start," he said. 

Again, silence between them, a man singing in a language Mulder  
couldn't understand. He liked the music, though. He liked it a  
lot.

"Will you help me?" Mulder said softly.

Neill looked down at the floor, toward the door where Eagon and the  
others were waiting. Mulder held his breath.

"Aye," Neill said at last, and let out a long breath. "Aye." 

 

*******

THE SLAUGHTERED LAMB  
OMAGH, NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
MARCH 31  
9:36 P.M.

 

"Do you ever think about anything but drinking, Renahan?" 

Skinner looked across the worn wooden table that looked older than he was at Renahan's boozy half smile.   
The other man's lips wore a wet patina of saliva, the look one got when they were six or seven beers in and   
about two more away from the toilet.

"Fucking hell, man," Renahan said, too loud, though none of the men in the tavern even looked sideways at   
him. "You've met me wouldn't you if you were me? Eh? Eh?" He broke into a fit of chuckles, each one   
snorty and swimming in dark beer.

Skinner scowled, stared down at the surface of his own beer, the liquid still touching the rim. He could see   
a vague reflection of his face in it, like a black mirror. He wanted to say that Renahan was right. He wanted   
to tell the man that if he didn't spend so much time acting like an asshole people might not keep mistaking   
him for one. But he decided to save his breath.

Breath was what you needed in the Slaughtered Lamb, a tavern so filled with pipe and cigarette smoke it   
looked like the deserted roads they'd driven back in from the roadway where they'd been forced off onto the   
shoulder, the entire drive robed in fog the headlights could barely break through. 

Skinner could still remember looking up at the sign over the tavern, blurred as he'd groped on the sidewalk   
for his glasses after being tossed out of the moving car with Renahan, the sign a wooden placard festooned   
with an old painting of a lamb with its throat slit. Its clarity as he righted his glasses and got to his feet   
wasn't much comfort as he'd listened to the Brit laughing on the ground next to him, laughing so hard he   
couldn't get up without Skinner's yank on his arm.

"In we go!" Renahan had said, brushing off his clothes as though the care mattered. He still looked like he'd   
just crawled out of a box underneath a highway overpass.

"Why here?" Skinner'd asked, pointing at the sign. It didn't seem a good omen.

Renahan smiled. "Because I'm thinking this being our stop-off isn't a coincidence, Mr. Skinner, for one," he   
said. "And two, we don't have a place to stay yet and they've got some rooms...and three..." He smiled the   
smile that seemed to challenge and apologize at the same time. "I've got a bit of a thirst." 

Skinner had no choice but to follow him in. 

The night before they'd been their captor's guests in a house outside of town, both of them locked in the   
back room of a house out away from town. No one had spoken to them, though they'd been giving a wedge   
of cheese and a loaf of bread at one point, and access to a toilet as needed off the back of the house. 

Renahan hadn't seemed bothered by the treatment, saying only once: "I've seen worse," and then quieting as   
the unmistakable sound of a gun butt on the door silenced them both until nightfall. Skinner's mind had   
turned the image of Mulder climbing into the other car with the young man with the slit lip over in his   
mind, and he'd gnawed a sore spot on his own lip at the thought.

"Fuck," he'd breathed at one point, forgetting Renahan was there, the other man dozing in the corner.   
Renahan had been awake enough to chuff at the word.

Then it was out into the car wearing blindfolds, a curving drive into town, and then the lights of the pub as   
they'd had their blindfolds removed, a shove and an obscenity for good measure and they rolled to a stop on   
the ground.

"I think this was a mistake," Skinner said over the din in the pub, clenching and unclenching his jaw like a   
fist as he spoke. 

"What part of it?" Renahan replied, taking another drink. Beer clung to his beard. 

"Sitting around here with our thumbs up our asses while Mulder's Christ knows where..."

Renahan smiled. "He's with Eamon Neill," he said. "You know that as well as I do. Neill's nephew, the   
ginger with the scar?" He made a swipe down his face. "Little Eagon knows exactly where we are. We'll sit   
tight. Wait it out." 

"We should be looking for both of them," Skinner spat, and now he did take a sip of his beer, frustrated. He   
wished he still smoked.

"No need," Renahan said. "They just walked in the fucking door." 

Skinner looked first at the other man's Guinness smile, then over his shoulder where Renahan's eyes were   
focused. Sure enough, there was Mulder and another man, shorter with reddish hair and a beard and tired,   
wise eyes. Mulder's hands were in his jacket pockets, and as he approached, Skinner saw the swollen eye,   
the split in his lip. He was looking at Skinner, a small smile on his face.

The man beside him was not smiling, and his eyes were not on Skinner but on the man across the table   
from him, who leaned back in the chair he was in, its back creaking like bones. Renahan reached for his   
pint and nearly missed.

Skinner stood, tucking in his shirt a bit more out of habit, straightening himself up to his full height. He felt   
his mouth curl into a wry half-smile as Mulder stood before him, his hair mussed, a couple of days growth   
of beard on his face making him look more worn.

Mulder's mouth quirked, the slit gaping a bit, that smartass smile that made Skinner want to belt him from   
across his desk. "Sorry," he quipped. "I got held up."

"We all did, as I recall," Skinner grumbled, and turned his attention to the other man, and Mulder did, as   
well. "I've been eating stinking cheese and pissing outdoors for a day and a half."

"It's good you can keep up your regular routine this far from home, sir," Mulder said dryly, and Skinner   
rolled his eyes, the relief at seeing each other in one piece released with the insults.

Mulder turned to the man beside him. 

"Mr. Neill," he said, nodding toward Skinner. "This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the F.B.I."   
Skinner and Neill shook hands, one short shake, and Neill angled his head in Skinner's direction.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, and his voice sounded like the man should sing bonnie Christmas carols, Skinner   
thought. Something warm in it, warm and quiet, almost as if the tone of his voice was pitched on purpose to   
keep people at ease. "I'm Eamon Neill. Glad to meet you," he added, and Skinner nodded, watching Neill   
turn his attention to Renahan.

"Mr. Renahan," Neill said softly. "Been a long time." His voice had lost some of its warmth now, his eyes   
looking tired and bit dim, as though a cloud of memory had passed before them.

Renahan chuckled. "Not fucking long enough," he said. "What was it? Eighty-four? Eighty-five? I can't   
recall."

"You know exactly when it was we last met," Neill said softly, though his voice seemed to carry. Skinner   
realized it was because the noise level in the room had dropped a touch. "I'd imagine you've still got the   
clipping up on your wall from the day you brought me into Derry. You still keep all those clippings, Mr.   
Renahan? Like you used to do?"

Renahan took a swig from the pint, the foam clinging to his moustache like a second moustache. "It was a   
memorable day, that one, aye," he said, ignoring the last part of the question.

"I know I'll never forget it," Neill said, and he reached to his right arm, pushed the sleeve of the thick   
sweater he wore up. There was a sunken-in place on the side of his forearm where muscle was missing, the   
area blotted with thick white scar. 

Mulder and Skinner looked at Renahan, who laughed. "I didn't do that to you now, Eamon," he said   
jovially. "That's not me."

Neill smiled mirthlessly. "You didn't have to do much of anything for yourself now did you?" he said   
softly. "Ran your own bloody Nutting Squad right there, didn't you?" His voice rose in volume, but not in   
ire. "Kept it looking clean for the Yanks on the outside, shiny and clean, while inside those walls you were   
doing worse than you blamed us for. Weren't you. Fucking Nutting Brits having their pictures taken for the   
papers and you in there chatting it up and then leaving the cell with your big smile while we were in there   
with those blokes and God only knows what."

The smile fell from Renahan's face, and other faces were turning all around from the tables surrounding   
them. A couple of men stood, pipes in their mouths. Skinner couldn't tell if they were rising to move   
forward or back, but their eyes showed they understood everything Neill had said, their eyes darting from   
Neill to Renahan and back again.

"I don't think this is the place for this discussion," Skinner ventured, putting his hands out, one toward each   
of the men. Renahan was still leaning back in the chair as though someone had poured him there, his hand   
tight on the glass. Neill still had his arm out, his left hand gripping his right elbow to hold up the sweater's   
thick sleeve. 

Mulder reached out, touched Neill's arm just above the scar's ruin, gently put his arm down as though he   
were lowering a hand that held a gun. 

"It's the past," Mulder said. "It's over now." 

Renahan's knowing smile returned, and even Neill's eyes creased with cynical amusement. 

"You're not that nave, I know, Mr. Mulder," Neill said. 

"No," Mulder said. "I know there's no such thing as 'over' in the whole goddamn country." He couldn't keep   
the bitter from his voice. Skinner lowered his hands as Neill's lips curled in an almost sad smile.

Then he rolled his sleeve down, pulled out a wooden chair and sat himself. "Not nave at all," he said,   
sounding tired but somehow pleased. He turned to a man at a table nearby, a younger man who wore a   
stocking cap that Skinner hadn't even noticed was there.

"Kevin, how about a pint?" he said to the young man, who nodded and stood, going to the bar. "We'll be   
needing two. And another for these two, as well."

Skinner looked at Mulder, and he could tell that Mulder was tamping down the urge to gape at the whole   
place, at every face, every set of eyes and every curl of smoke from every pipe.

"Have a sit, Mr. Mulder, Mr. Skinner," Renahan said, seeming pleased at the two Americans' discomfort,   
which Skinner would have labeled further as fear. Renahan's eyes didn't leave Neill's, the two of them   
looking like they were about to play a particularly intricate game of cards. Poker. With real clubs and   
spades. 

Mulder sat, Skinner following suit, both of them moving slowly, aware of all the eyes, the subtle lowering   
of the din of the room.

"Welcome to my Ireland," Renahan said to them both, his teeth showing in a bemused smile. Skinner   
looked at him, then at Mulder's dawning understanding as the younger man looked at Neill and nodded   
with some comprehension that Skinner couldn't yet reach himself.

"And to mine," Neill replied, his voice quiet and knowing again. He didn't even look up as the man he'd   
called Kevin returned with their black, warm pints and set them down in the center of the table for the men   
to take.

 

*****

CLONIFFE BED & BREAKFAST  
DUBLIN, REPUBLIC OF IRELAND  
APRIL 1  
7:02 A.M.

Another bed, this one without the woman called Bridget, the woman he'd picked up and taken into his bed   
with her strange, scarred body. Without her and her smoky lips and her entreats for a couple of pounds, but   
also without the small amount of warmth she'd afforded. Christie Collin was dressing in the gray light   
coming through the overly fluffed curtains at the B&B and looking at the bed, thinking of the woman's red   
hair sprayed out on the pillow, how he'd looked down at her face as he'd fucked her Bridget so drunk she   
was having a hard time keeping her blue eyes focused on his face and how he'd tried to turn that face into   
another face.

Something more like desperation than desire. Regret rather than lust.

He wondered how long he'd be trying to bring the American woman back to life in his mind. How long it   
would be before he'd stop thinking of the baby inside her, both of them wearing suits of glittering glass and   
flame behind his eyes. 

As he dressed (simple jeans and the ubiquitous white fisherman's sweater he wore like his civilian   
uniform), he thought about two things his Sergeant had told him would happen to a soldier. 

"First," Finney'd said, cooking over a silver tin of Sterno in a mountain forest so green it had made Christie   
wonder if there were any other color on Earth, "you'll feel bad about some of the people you've killed.   
You'll think about them, turn their faces over in your mind like coins. Regret things. Wish you'd go back   
and do things different."

Christie younger then, probably too young to think about such things but already in need of doing so   
had stirred the tea in the metal teapot and nodded. 

"And second," Finney'd continued, "you'll have to learn to get over the first and move past it or you'll crack   
up doing this job. There's no going back. Dead is dead and there's nothing to be done about it." 

Deaths had bothered him then, but at least then, he thought grimly, they had been carried out for reasons he   
could justify or even name. 

As he thought this, he could almost feel his grandmother's dry hand on his arm, hear that papery voice that   
sounded like how an ancient crow would talk if it could form his name. 

A tap at the door, and Christie called for whoever it was to come in. 

The man he'd met the night before in a steady rain, the man haloed by the gas light outside the cottage and   
holding a black umbrella over Christie as he'd ushered him into the house, stood in the doorway, his face   
grim, though Christie suspected his face always looked that way. Riggs was Old Guard, the I.R.A. his life.   
The Troubles seemed to have lodged themselves in the creases of the old men's faces. At least every one   
he'd seen, and he'd seen quite a few.

"Mr. Collin," Riggs said, formal and steady. "Wife's got eggs on for you like you asked. Lady Collin said to   
call this morning. I've got a phone downstairs where you can be a bit private."

"Ta," Christie said, running his hand over his crewcut out of habit, as though he were actually straightening   
the razored hair. He followed Riggs out, closing the door to his simple room with his duffle on the neatly   
made bed behind him. 

The room Riggs led him to was a comfortable office with dark wood, the desk clearly nearly as old as the   
cottage itself. The phone on the corner was even corded, the old handle feeling ridiculously large against   
his ear as he turned the dial to put in the number and it rang. The signal was as clear as water.

"Christie?" That ghostly raven voice. Early for her, the voice not yet much used for the day.

"Aye, I'm all set where you said." He knew to keep the calls short, and he liked them that way besides.

"He's in Omagh," his grandmother continued without any nicety or prelude. "Omagh. With Eamon Neill   
and Ed Renahan and that man he works with." 

A good distance away. He was safe where he was. Then why...?

"You sound worried about that," he ventured. 

"Neill knows too much to be involved," she said, which he could have guessed.

"He doesn't know me." It was why he'd been chosen for this. Few knew him at all, and his life had frankly   
felt just like that.

"No, but he does know me. Or...people...who know me. People not far from where he is." 

He thought of Omagh, drew a line to the coast on the map in his mind, settling on the dot of a town whose   
name he knew all too well, that everyone with anything to do with the Cause knew and had managed to   
keep secret.

Not far at all.

"We need to find out what Mr. Mulder knows," she continued. "I've got someone whose going to go   
through his things and see what they can find. But in any case...I think it's time for Mr. Mulder to join his   
wife."

Christie felt heat come up in his face. "You said it would only be the two. The ones responsible. You said   
there'd be no more to be done to pay for this."

"It's not about John in this case." Her voice was a faint wheeze now. He could hear the whine of her chair   
and knew the call would end. "It's about protecting us. What's left of us."

(You, he thought. It's about protecting you.)

"Mr. Mulder's curiosity has been unexpected. There's too much too lose. When I have something for you,   
I'll call. But I want you moving. Cross the border. Go to St. Sebastian's. Wait for me there." 

And the line went dead.

He walked past the smell of butter and eggs and bread, past the sound of Riggs and his wife and someone   
speaking French, a foreigner rattling a newspaper at the B&B's kitchen table and speaking to his child. Up   
the stairs and back onto the corner of the bed.

The sun was coming through the drapes, flowers on their fabric staining the ivory blankets faintly red. He   
touched a spot of it, calloused fingers, hard on soft.

Bridget sleeping there. He held onto the name, held her face in his hands in his mind and she roused and   
looked at him.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice tinged as if she knew him or cared.

He hesitated, looking into her invisible eyes, worrying the cotton beneath his fingers as though it were her   
hair.

"She says..." he began, swallowed. "She says she doesn't understand this Mulder and what he's doing."

"But it's what she's doing, isn't it then?" she said softly. 

Christie nodded to nothing. "Don't know how she can't say she doesn't understand...a man with a dead   
wife. Dead baby..." He looked into the mirage of her eyes. "She has to understand that sort of revenge, you   
know? She must."

Bridget looked at him gravely, her face seeming to vanish into white. "She understands the Cause,   
Christie," she said, her voice lost on a gust of wind pressing against the window.

He spoke to her as she faded from view, her eyes showing she heard the final thing he said: 

"Then she understands revenge."

 

********

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
10:15 a.m.

 

"Watch," Albert Hosteen said, his long legs, clad in faded jeans, squeezing on Ghost's sides, a thin stick   
tapping on the dapple gray of the horse's long neck. Just a touch, barely enough for Ghost to feel through   
his sleek coat. As he did so, he said the Navajo word for "left." Dutifully, the horse moved to the left and   
walked toward a battered barrel in the center of the corral, close to where Sean was standing with Cloud,   
the pony looking bored. 

"Now watch again," Hosteen said, and Sean squinted up at him, his face already growing a touch red from   
the sun beating down on the corral. He said the word again, did nothing with the stick this time, and Ghost   
turned to the left again and walked to the second barrel, the one with the dent in the side from one too many   
rolls and kicks.

Sean looked at him, at Cloud, then back again, his face still screwed up against the sun. He chanced a   
glance to the side of the corral, too, where Mae and Scully and Sara were, Mae standing up on the slats so   
that her head looked over the top and Scully seated on the bleachers beside Sara, who was bouncing   
Katherine like a toy. 

Hosteen glanced over, as well, met Scully's eyes, the woman's face a bit pinched with concern. Sean had   
been ignoring Hosteen for twenty minutes, watching him but not doing as he said, leaning over   
occasionally to whisper something in the pony's cocked ear.

"Hmm," Hosteen said, speaking softly to Ghost, who walked slowly to the fence near Mae and Scully.   
Scully stood slowly as he approached, her hand on the small of her back.

"Not much progress today, I see," Mae said, and Hosteen noted that she didn't even try to hide the   
bitterness in her voice. He only smiled faintly as Ghost pushed his charcoal nose over the fence and against   
Mae's hand. Mae pulled her hand away a few inches, her eyes still on Sean talking to Cloud. 

"There is progress," he replied, nodding toward Sean. "He's telling the pony a story. Stories are important   
things to tell, don't you think?" He smiled at Mae again, mostly with his eyes, as she looked up at him   
almost accusingly. 

"I suppose," she said, and glanced away. 

"Does he like stories?" Hosteen asked, Ghost swishing his tail in a sound like a brush. Scully crossed her   
arms and watched the exchange, her eyes going between Hosteen and the side of Mae's face.

"What do you mean?" Mae said. "Of course he likes stories. More so when he was younger, but he's liked   
them, yes."

"What sort?" Hosteen pressed. 

Mae seemed to consider this for a moment, shielding her eyes as the sun swelled behind a thin cloud cover   
and beat down on them, turning everything almost white. 

"It's almost funny, but you know what his favorites were?" Mae said, looking up at him from slits for eyes.   
At Hosteen's cocked head, she said: "Cowboys and Indians." 

A laugh bubbled up through Hosteen's chest. "Bad stories about Indians I would guess," he said. "From the   
way he looked at me when we first met. Like I was going to put him on a spit and turn him over a fire." He   
chuckled again.

"Not bad stories, really..." Mae said carefully. "More...just...you know. The kind of stories about Indians   
scalping people. Braves and squaws and battles with people in bloody wagons and that sort. People turning   
themselves into animals and dancing around like monkeys for rain and painting their faces up. Rubbish like   
that." 

Hosteen watched Scully cringe and look down, stifling a laugh, and she glanced at Hosteen to make sure he   
wasn't taking offense. Behind her, Sara Whistler set off in a fit of laughter that startled a flock of birds on   
the barn's sagging roof into chittering flight, a few stray feathers falling down in front of the open doors.

"Hmm," Hosteen said. "I see." He winked at Scully, who said nothing. "Agent Scully, you should rest. Go   
find Mr. Granger first, though. He has something to tell you." 

"Me?" Scully said, and turned, looking toward Victor's house, the paddock behind where they'd all seen   
Granger fussing with the sheep with Victor and a few of his men. 

"Yes," Hosteen said, and then he turned Ghost with a word and headed back into the center of the corral   
toward Sean. 

Sean looked up, seeming almost guilty as Hosteen stopped in front of him. 

"Get on the pony, Sean, and come with me," he said, and Sean, who had not listened to a thing Hosteen had   
said for some time, relented, climbing on Cloud's back and taking the reins in his small hands. Hosteen   
urged Ghost forward, and one of Hosteen's men dealing with the other horses in a connecting corral   
opened the wide gate to let them out.

Hosteen smiled as they rode toward the entrance to the stable, something spinning out in his mind like a   
ribbon. The further it spun, the more he smiled. 

Finally, composing his face, he stopped Ghost in front of the entrance to the stable, reached in his back   
pocket and pulled out a red bandana. Sean had stopped Cloud behind him and sat, watching him warily. 

Bending to the ground, Hosteen picked up one of the plain feathers dropped by the cloud of doves that had   
risen off the roof. It was gray, the color of soot almost, and didn't even shine as he held it, its dull color   
seeming to absorb the light. The quill was hard and white and mottled with dirt. He put it in the pocket of   
his shirt.

He turned then to Sean, took the few steps that separated them. Sean looked at him strangely as Hosteen got   
very close, standing right beside him. He watched as the older man reached out, folding the bandana into a   
strip against the side of Sean's thigh. When he had a band, he reached up and, though Sean shied a bit, tied   
it around Sean's head, just above his eyebrows. After he'd made a firm knot, he reached into the pocket of   
his shirt and retrieved the feather, inserting it carefully between Sean's head and the knot. 

"Hm," Hosteen said, standing up almost comically straight. "Looks good."

Sean reached up, looking at him with a surprised and slightly distrustful expression. He touched the feather   
gently with his hand. 

"This is a dove's feather," Hosteen said. "The weakest of the feathers for a boy becoming a Brave. You   
have taken only the first step in your path to becoming a Brave." He said it lofty, just as he knew Sean   
would expect it all to be said. "If you wish it, you can continue on that path, but it is a hard path."

Sean continued to touch the feather, looking into Hosteen's face, searching.

"The next feather is a crow," Hosteen said. "To become a Crow, you will have to come with me into the   
desert and complete a trial. That is the way of my people. This is our way. Even though you are not one of   
us, I see you can do these things, and I am a Holy Man and know these things. Will you do them? Will you   
continue on this path?"

Sean stroked the feather again, his hand knotting the pony's mane in his hand. Cocking his head, he   
squinted at Hosteen against the light and finally nodded. 

"Hmm." Hosteen nodded. "Very good. We will begin tonight. Go and pack for a night of camping. I will   
bring you the things you will need for the trial." 

And with that, he turned, swung slowly but easily up onto Ghost's back and, with a word, walked away   
from Sean, leaving him there in his bandana and his feather as Hosteen headed back for the house.

*****

11:01 a.m.

 

Scully had walked the length of the ranch's compound to the area behind Victor's house, a dusty area that   
was swollen with sheep, all clotted together in the small space bumping against one another and mewing   
softly to one another. In the midst of them, Victor and Granger and two of the other men who worked on   
the ranch were pulling females out of the flock, females with wide strips of color on their rumps yellows   
and reds and blues and greens. They were taking them out and putting them in a separate enclosure.

"Hello, Paul," she said softly as she neared his side of the fence. 

He looked up, his face a strangely ashen color for someone with such a dark complexion, his eyes wet and   
tired. He was sweating profusely, dark stains of it circling his armpits and the neck of his T-shirt. Her brow   
creased down immediately. It was hot, but it wasn't that hot...

"Are you okay?" she asked, and Granger seemed to balk a bit at the question, reached down instead for a   
ewe who was trying to run between his legs, her rump a brilliant shade of purple. 

"I'm fine, Dana," he said softly, wiped his brow on the arm of his short-sleeved shirt. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said.

"The baby okay?"

She smiled faintly, bemused. "As far as I can tell, she seems to be. I think she'll be joining the circus,   
though, with the amount of turning she's doing." 

Granger smiled, though there was something pained in his face as he heaved a sheep over another and   
toward the small gap that separated the enclosures. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, though she kept her eyes on his face. 

"We're moving the ewes who've already mated," he said. Victor was across the pen, a ram dancing around   
the perimeter looking very put out.

"How can you tell that?"

"They were smoking cigarettes when we got down here," Granger quipped, and Scully chuckled. Granger   
grinned. "Actually, you can tell by the color on their rumps. See?" He gestured to the nearest one, a colored   
ewe in the midst of all the white. "You can tell from that one that she's mated with one of Keel's while she   
was up there, and only him. There's yellow but no other colors on her. The males have these wax sticks on   
their bellies so that they mark any ewes they've mated with and Victor can tell which lambs are from which   
males, so if there are any problems, he can castrate the males." 

"There's a few mental images I didn't need to have," Scully said, and noticed that the male prancing   
around Victor with its head down did indeed have a blue wax stick on its stomach, and there were many   
blue-stained sheep in the corral.

"Yeah," Granger said. "Sheep Sex. Who knew how exciting it could be?"

"Only the sheep," Scully said under her breath. 

"And," Granger added, "If the saying around Hopkins was true, some folks at Virginia Tech." He   
guffawed.

Scully groaned. A common joke at Maryland, too. 

Then, desperate for a change of subject and sorry she'd asked about the whole thing, she straightened a bit.   
"Mr. Hosteen said you had something you wanted to tell me?" 

Granger straightened, his hands on his hips, and wiped his brow again. "I what?" he asked.

"He said you had something to tell me," she repeated patiently. 

He shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of," he replied. 

One of Victor's dogs came galloping into the pen, its tail waving like a flag and peels of barking coming   
from it as it rounded up the sheep. 

"FANG!" Victor yelled. "Get out of here, you mangy-"

"I'll get him," Granger called, and took off at a lope between the sheep toward the dog, which was   
clustering the sheep into little knots and then nipping them so that they leapt over one another and fell. 

Granger made it about halfway across the paddock, Scully watching him and the sheep piling up around   
her, bleating, when something odd seemed to happen. Granger stopped in mid-stride, standing so still it was   
as if he were playing a child's game of Freeze. His fists balled, his face aimed down. The sheep bustled   
around him and the dog circled with even more frenzy, delighted at not being caught.

"Paul?" Scully called when he'd been motionless for what seemed like a long time.

He said nothing. He didn't move. It was as if he'd turned to stone right there in the dust and the sunlight,   
though even from where she was standing, there behind the low fence, she could see that he was trembling   
slightly and his chest was heaving. 

"Granger!" Victor called again. "Get that damn dog, will you?"

"Paul!" Scully called again, and now she did move, toward the rickety gate as fast as she could, moving   
through the sheep, the dog still rounding them up in gleeful chaos as Scully picked her way to Granger.

Victor had likewise moved, the other men going after Fang as Victor worked his way to Granger.

"Paul, what is it?" Scully said as she stood beside him, winded herself, panicking. Granger had gone even   
more ashen, his face looking almost waxy. He was biting his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed. 

"Nothing..." he choked out. "Nothing..."

She reached down and grabbed his wrist, her fingers finding the pulse there. The beats were irregular both   
in their rhythm and in their intensity, and she could tell from the way he held himself so stiff, his chest   
rising and falling with a strained cadence, that he was in terrible pain. 

"What going on?" Victor said, his hand going out to Granger's shoulder. Granger shook his head. 

"Paul, you're having some kind of cardiac event," Scully said, taking him by the elbow. "We've got to get   
you to a hospital-"

"NO!" The word burst from him. "No hospital no doctors nothing..." He trailed off from the stream of   
words. "Nothing..."

"Victor," Scully said. "Get in the truck and go up to your grandfather's house. I've got a bag there you'll   
know it when you see it. It's beside the dresser in my room. Go get it for me, please." 

Victor looked stricken, but nodded and ran out of the corral. 

"Can you walk?" Scully asked gently, still holding his elbow. She could tell by the way his face was   
relaxing that he was not in as much pain. Beneath her fingers, his heart rate was slowing, becoming more   
normal. 

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, I'm fine..." He tried to shake her off but she held on.

"You're not fine," she said, and she was angry now. She angled him toward the gate, a bench on the other   
side, which she sat him down on, pushing hard to get him to go down.

He wiped his forehead, still winded. 

"How long?" she said, and she could see something frightened pass over his face, which confirmed her   
worst suspicions as to his condition's seriousness. He'd reacted as if she'd asked him how long he had to   
live.

"It's nothing," he said softly. 

"Paul."

"It's nothing that anyone can do anything about," he amended, and his voice bristled. 

She settled onto the bench beside him. "The gunshot wound," she said. "Muscle damage from the bullet?"

"Some, but..." He shook his head.

She nodded, though she blanched. "Post-operative infection."

He hesitated, nodded. 

"Endocarditis?" She said it grimly. 

He nodded and she felt color rising her face as her temper flared.

"And what else?" she demanded. She felt her eyes flare. "What else?"

He didn't answer her, looked away.

"What in the HELL are you doing out here?" she snapped. "My God, Paul-"

"I'm out here doing what I want to do," he bit back, his eyes hardening. 

She swallowed. "Does Robin know?" Then she answered herself. "No, of course she doesn't know..." She   
ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it off her forehead where a few strands had fallen. 

"I don't want her to know," he said softly. 

"You don't think she has a right to?" Scully exclaimed. "Paul, if you don't get a transplant-"

"I'm on the list, but it's gone too far too fast," he said. "Getting some distance from me is probably the best   
thing that could happen for her."

Scully was standing before she even knew she had risen, glaring down at him. "How dare you make that   
decision for her," she said quietly, so quietly that Granger looked up as though she'd shouted.

"I'm protecting her, Dana," he said. "You'd do the same for Mulder." He looked up at her. "You ARE   
doing the same for Mulder." He stared. "Aren't you?"

The silence, broken only by the ewes, stretched between them as their gazes hung.

"Not like this," she said, low and dangerous. "Never like this."

And even as it left her mouth, she knew she was lying. She'd never told him when the cancer had spread.   
He'd found out the hard way. He'd found all of that out the hard way, more from what she didn't say than   
what she did, clues dropped like so much blood from her nostril, a morning in late...

And the dreams now. The man in her dreams with the brown pants, the brown shirt and ragged face. The   
man in the wheelchair beckoning her. Something just out of sight in every dream, and whatever it was   
drenched in a child's screaming and blood...

"I'll make a deal with you," she said, watching as Victor's truck came ambling back into sight from the   
road, kicking up a cloud of golden dust. 

He squinted up. "What deal?"

She pushed her hair back again, composing herself. "I'll tell him. If you tell her." 

Granger looked down, his hands closing on the edge of the bench. Victor's truck screeched to a halt and he   
came out, carrying a black doctor's bag as he jogged towards them.

"Deal?" Scully pressed.

Granger heaved in a deep sigh, looked at her, and nodded. 

"Deal." 

 

******

12:14 p.m.

 

Victor Hosteen's barn was older than his grandfather, the wood so parched by the desert sun that it had   
turned the color of ash. Inside was one of the few places on the ranch that actually stayed reasonably cool,   
even in the high months of July and August when the desert here baked at over 100 degrees. 

He didn't know if it was the quiet that came over the animals when they were inside it, the sweet smell of   
oats and hay, or the way the sunlight could only come in through the places in the roof where the wood had   
finally given way, one board at a time, bars of it falling to the floor like tiny spotlights for the lingering   
dust. 

He'd gotten the sheep into the pen to one side, the pen's low fence across from the stalls where some of the   
horses were sequestered. Two lazy mares, older than most of the herd, swaybacked. A black and white   
paint held the corner stall, coming to the bars with his eyes flashing at whomever walked through the   
doorway. 

As he'd come in with the sheep, the paint had tamped against the stall door, raising a high sound of   
warning. Victor only smiled. The horse had become too cantankerous to ride in the last six months or so,   
but Victor didn't have the heart to put him down. This one, the one he'd dubbed with a Navajo name that   
approximated "Killer," had been the first lesson in respect for the ranch that many of the men had learned. 

Many, including Mulder all that time ago. 

"Calm yourself down, old man," Victor said to the horse as he gave the last of the straggling sheep a touch   
with a long stick, urging them toward the pen and its shade and its dust. "We all know you're in charge in   
here, so let us be." A chicken scrabbled out of the way as he walked.

After he'd closed the pen with its rope lock, the sheep bumping against each other as they found their place,   
he leaned against one of the posts, his chin on his forearms, thinking.

"He's dying, you know," came a voice in Navajo from behind him. He was not surprised. He'd known she   
was there.

"Yeah," he replied in the same language, sounding tired. "I know." 

Sara Whistler came up beside him, carrying a chicken in her arms. It was black with white specks. Red   
comb and eye like beads. 

"What will you do, Victor?" she asked, bouncing the hen slightly as it began to make chucking sounds, as   
though it were a baby in need of a nap instead of the evening's meal. 

Victor chuffed softly, though he didn't smile as he did so. "What's there to do?" he said, and Whistler was   
silent. "It's about belief, isn't it? He doesn't have it."

"He has a lot," she replied, stroking the hen's neck. "More than even he knows."

"He's not one of us," Victor said, and this almost out of habit, though the words sounded hollow even to his   
ears.

"None of them are," she replied as he knew she would. "And your grandfather helps them. You can help   
them, too."

But Victor shook his head. "Not this way," he said. "Not with this."

Sara leaned against his arm gently. "You can't believe he came to us by chance," she said softly. "Any more   
than the others came to your grandfather to see the boxcar all those years ago."

"No, that was not chance," he agreed. "That was a secret that they were meant to find."

She nodded. "Meant to find for that truth and so that you and your grandfather would be here for them   
when they came again Agent Scully and Agent Mulder. When they came again, so lost and so broken." 

"So you think it's come again?" he asked. "This time for Granger?"

"Not just for that," Whistler replied, "but yes."

He turned and looked into her eyes. The chicken was quiet, content in her arms. 

"Victor, if something is good," she said in a quiet voice, "should it not be for everyone's good?"

He met her eyes. "It's about belief," he said again. "And he will not believe. It's too far for him to walk. For   
any of them to walk." 

She shook her head. "Agent Mulder would believe," she said. "Agent Scully has had to learn to, as well."   
She paused, and he knew she was right on both those counts. 

"Try," she said, and held his eyes until he nodded. 

"The others won't like it," he tried one last time.

"They will do as you ask," she said. "As they've always done."

He looked at the sheep, heard Killer moving in his stall, a small wind coming in through the open door to   
the barn.

"All right," he said, relenting, and he let out a long breath. "I'll try."

She nodded, turned to walk away. Then, from behind:

"And Victor?"

He turned to face her again, his brow cocked in question. Her eyes were bottomless, her expression grave. 

"You must move quickly," she said. "There's not much time."

"For him?" he asked, confused by the gravity of what she said and how she'd said it.

Whistler shook her head. "For any of us." 

And she turned with the chicken and moved through the bars of light toward the house.

 

******

BALLYCASTLE  
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.  
APRIL 3  
5:45 a.m.

If the man looked at the whirls in the grain on the bottom of the boat, they appeared to look up at him like   
eyes.

As the light shifted over the sea, climbing somewhere behind a shroud of clouds that burned the whole   
world crimson around him, he could see the dark eyes like holes in pale skin, the wood the color of a butter   
beneath his feet. The sea was so dark it appeared black, light caught on the waves around him as he pulled   
the long oars through it, sun on onyx and the whole thing shot with gold ribbons of light. 

He could still see the shoreline in the distance, the boat rocking on the waves, the water filled with chop.   
He dropped the anchor, a lard can filled with buckshot and its lid sealed down tight, the white rope running   
over the side for a dozen meters or more and then stopping, the boat drifting until it caught.

The man pulled the oars in, folded them out of the way like wings. 

Now the hard part. A hook in one hand, the head of a small fish in the other. He'd moved to larger bait   
since Christmas, not because he sought a larger catch but because his hands shook so badly now that he   
couldn't thread anything else on the barbed hooks. 

He rarely landed what he caught anymore. He'd lost so much line they'd started to rib him a bit in a town, at   
least until weight started dropping off of him too quickly to be anything else, when the shaking had become   
impossible to hide. 

The line and silver hooks and weights started showing up on his front step in a paper sack, a note saying   
"for your trouble." 

The man hooked the bait onto the three-pronged hook, the bait fish's eyes looking up at him like pearls. The   
pain was worse today, aggravated by the rowing, the night of little sleep soothed only by his wife's hands   
stroking his back.

"For your trouble," he said softly, his lip curling beneath his white moustache, and tossed the face over the   
side, where it disappeared into gold and black.

 

***** 

OUTSIDE MAGHERAFETT  
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.  
APRIL 3  
6:03 a.m.

 

It was a story Scully had told him.

There was sunlight coming through the window of their house, washing the kitchen, glinting off a glass that   
stood beside the sink. In the story, he'd been leaning against the sink drinking a cup of coffee and Scully   
had been at the kitchen table, perched in a chair with her robe pulled off one shoulder, the baby's dark head   
turned toward her breast. 

As the baby had finished, Scully had put their daughter on her shoulder against a thick white cloth, and he'd   
turned at the sink, put the mug down, wet a soft cloth beneath a warm stream of water. Then he'd come   
forward with it, standing in front of her, pressed the cloth to the raw red of her nipple, his palm holding it in   
place. 

"It's how you kiss me just after that," she'd told him, her voice coming from beside him in the dark of their   
bedroom. It was the first night after they'd moved. "That's what stays with me from it." 

He'd reached down and cupped her breast, wanting to make it real right then, not wanting to wait. 

"Yes," he whispered. He knew just how he would do it. He'd done it then.

Awhile later, dawn giving way to a gray day that promised rain, it was a story he'd told himself.

The light that had come through the window, Samantha's body rising and going out the door that had shot   
open, wood on wood like the crack of gunfire. Game pieces rattling on a board, the house shaking itself   
apart. He remembered how small her body looked as the impossible brightness silhouetted it against the   
white of her nightgown, how her long hair hung down, her arms out in surprise and crucifixion. 

As vivid as it was, everything around that moment was fading. The face on the bridge long, thick hair   
curled -- vanishing to Scully's bloodied face above the Bounty Hunter's forearm, her eyes aghast at his   
sacrifice. 

He concentrated, but it was going gauzy, a funeral shroud of Forget. Neill had started this when he'd talked   
about family at his house in the south, conjured Samantha out of the past's thin air.

But, he realized, he was forgetting his sister's face.

Awhile after that, it was a story Neill was telling him, Renahan snoring a bit too close to a dour looking   
Skinner in the backseat, his face framed in the rearview mirror. Neill was driving to Mulder's right. 

"I only saw him that once," Neill was saying. "And I know he was part of the Newry Squad. His name was   
a secret to nearly everyone except the most highly placed. I know James Curran knew him quite well. I'd   
wager Owen knew him, as well, though probably only when he was a boy."

"Why the secrecy still?" Mulder asked as the car took a particularly sharp curve slowly. Neill was a   
cautious man. "Did he retire?"

Neill smiled, his eyes crinkling at their edges in amusement. "No, I would doubt that he did," and Mulder   
immediately felt nave. 

"I guess a retirement party isn't really part of anyone's plan around here," he said, acknowledging his   
mistake. 

"Not unless it involves a casket and four cases of whiskey," Neill replied, and Skinner chuffed from the   
back. 

"He's alive, I should think," Neill continued. "It's just a question of finding him."

"What did he look like?" Skinner asked. "That time you saw him?"

Neill was quiet for a few beats, the car chugging along. The sun lost itself further behind the cloud and a   
few drops of rain dotted the windshield.

"It was '84 or '85, so it's not much help. He had a moustache, dark but going gray. The sharpest eyes I've   
ever seen. He was talking to this man called Seamus, but we all knew that wasn't his real name. I was in the   
pub in Newry dropping off some... information...and he was there. I saw Seamus slip him a piece of paper   
under a glass, like the thing was a bloody pub coaster. I knew what it was, though. I knew it had someone's   
name on it, and a time and a place."

"What makes you so sure he'd know who was responsible for what's going on with Scully?" Mulder asked.   
The thought of the man Neill was speaking of made him vaguely ill. 

"Because if he'd passed away we'd all know who he was," Neill said, taking a left onto a different road.   
"And if he's still alive, he's one of the last, and most of the last none of us know. And it's one of the last   
who's doing this." 

"But you don't think it's actually him doing it?" Mulder said after he'd let Neill's words sink in.

Neill shook his head. "No," he said. "It wasn't ever personal for him. He did what he was told. Perfectly.   
But nothing more." He looked at Mulder. "This whole mess...well, this is a private little war." 

A town was dotting the green ahead of them far off in the distance, a sign signaling a few kilometers to   
Cookstown. 

"Let's stop and get something to eat," Neill said as they passed the sign, the car doing the speed limit. "I   
could use a pot of tea. And there might be someone in Cookstown I need to see." 

Mulder nodded, pulled his jacket closer to him. 

His hand on Scully's breast and the taste of her mouth in the darkness. 

A slip of paper beneath a glass filled with liquid a shade lighter than blood.

Samantha's face vanishing in a haze of blue light, and the Irish sky opening with rain. 

 

*****

 

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
6:06 a.m.

There was a thin wind the size of a wrist moving across the front porch of Hosteen's house, pushing itself   
against a series of rusted steel spoons Sarah Whistler had strung up in a makeshift chime just beneath the   
aluminum awning. As the wind touched the utensils they clinked against each other with low, tinny notes,   
and that and the distant barking of a dog and the thunder coming in from a storm Scully could see in the   
distance were enough to conjure a sort of loneliness she found unbearable.

She'd thought telling him would make her feel better somehow, freer or more honest or more...something.   
It had not.

"I see new things now," the email had said. "They're still of you and of Rose, but there's something hanging   
in what I see now, like shadow. There's a man somewhere, and there's screaming, and something like a   
gunshot. Something terrible is going to happen, and not only that but I feel it as though it's happening now,   
my body feels it now, and I'm afraid."

Gone was the teasing from their earlier emails, even the last one he still hadn't answered, the one where she   
talked like a gossip about Mae and Frank Music and how she thought Frank might be interested in Mae but   
would rather die than show it, and Sean and his pony, and the baby kicking. 

Nothing like that in this one. "There's something I haven't told you..." and then she'd told him. Once she'd   
typed "I want you to come home," and then deleted it and changed the "want" to "need," and then she'd   
deleted the sentence all together, replaced it with "love" and signed her name.

The wind picked up a bit in a gust, the spoons plinking. Bo lifted his head from beside the rickety rocker   
she sat in, one of her hands trailing just above the dog's head and one on the protrusion of her navel, a   
bump beneath her shirt she worried with her finger. 

"Rain," Hosteen said from behind the screen door, and she craned her head to look at him. Only his face,   
closest to the screen, was visible in the growing darkness. 

"Yes," she agreed simply, returning her gaze to the gathering of clouds in the distance. A thread of   
lightning shot through them, the whole gray mass the color of dirty wool illuminating for an instant.

"Hope it doesn't bother the airplane," Hosteen ventured, worrying something in a napkin as though it was   
too hot to touch. "I do not know much about where they fly to come to here, but I would be afraid in one   
with angry clouds around."

She looked up, confused. "Airplane? What airplane?"

Hosteen kept his eye on the horizon. "Granger's woman is coming. She has been flying all night from what   
I understand." 

Scully swallowed. She could only imagine Robin's anguish. She knew the other woman well enough,   
though, to know that the red-eye flight meant she would be frantic and furious when she arrived. She was   
glad Robin would be here for Paul, though, and said so.

"Yes," Hosteen said. "He has much ahead of him, Granger. He will need her very soon in a way he doesn't   
know." 

She couldn't think about it. There'd been so much death. She couldn't even imagine it taking on that shape,   
so she said nothing.

"Heard you on your computer," he said. He put the corner of a neatly cut grilled cheese sandwich in his   
mouth and took a bite. 

She nodded, said nothing. Rain started to patter the metal roof, a dot at a time.

"I hope he replies to you this time," Hosteen ventured. Scully had long ago stopped wondering how he   
knew the things he did. She stroked Bo's soft head.

"He will," she said, with a conviction she couldn't get close to feeling.

"Hmm." His usual sound of commitment or non-commitment.

They were quiet for awhile, watching the rain come in. Hosteen came out the screen door with a creak and   
stood beside her. His long fingers curled around the post at the top of one side of the chair. 

"I thought you were going out camping last night with Sean," she said softly. "Mae said you were going   
out."

"Hmm," Hosteen said again. "The place we were going...too far with rain coming in this early. I do not   
mind rain, but lightning in the desert can be very dangerous. And it makes the horses afraid."

She looked up into his face, though he did not return her gaze. 

"This will be gone by noon," Hosteen said. "We will go tonight instead. It will be clear and cooler tonight.   
A bit of wind. Stars out." He smiled a faint smile.

"You can tell all that from looking at this storm?" she said, gesturing to the angry sky, thunder rolling.

"Yes," he said, nodding sagely. "The wind tells me. The thunder tells me. Every drop of rain speaks the   
name of a star..."

She looked down, shaking her head, a laugh gathering in her chest. 

"And you were watching The Weather Channel while you were making your sandwich," she said, and she   
looked back up into his face, finding his warm eyes on her and his smile wider.

"You spend too much time with me," he said, feigning a stern voice. "We will have to make you an Indian   
soon if you keep uncovering my magic."

She chuckled, resisted the urge to touch his hand, knowing the touch would be tolerated but not   
appropriate. "Mr. Hosteen, you have magic I will *never* uncover or understand."

"So do you," he said, and the smile melted off her face as she looked up at him. He held her gaze steadily.   
"You told Mulder what you have been seeing?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"Hmm," Hosteen said. "All of it?" 

She looked away, her hand worrying Bo's ear. The dog whined. 

"Most."

She didn't have to look up at him to see him nod.

"There will be more," he said into the sound of the sheeting rain. "Things you cannot hide. Things too hard   
to see." 

She kept her eyes ahead, her voice quiet. "I hope you're wrong," she said.

"I am not."

She nodded. "How do you know?" She hoped for one of his jokes, the Medicine Man rattling his bones.

Instead, she felt his hand touch her shoulder, just touching her there with its warm weight. 

"Magic," he said quietly, serious.

She said nothing, tears welling, and reached up to touch his hand. The spoons spun on their lines like fish in   
stronger wind, and she and Hosteen watched the rain.

 

******

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 3  
10:04 a.m.

 

Robin had thought that the desert would somehow look different in the Spring, since   
she'd heard even Paul say that it bloomed sometimes there. She'd expected to see sand   
somehow miraculously covered with flowers and grasses, impossibly bright as the cherry   
blossoms that festooned much of D.C. this time of year. 

But the truth was, Robin Brock - a black woman growing up in Philadelphia, most of her   
time spent in the hallways of one school or another, one lab or another, sterile   
environments where her dark skin stood out against white lab coats and white teachers -   
had never seen the desert. Paul had only seen it the last time he was here, and though   
he'd traveled a bit to see some of the things he'd always wanted to see (Grand Canyon,   
Canyon de Chelly, Petrified Forest), he came back regaling her with quiet stories of   
desolation and heat and something that felt completely lonely that he couldn't completely   
describe in the stretches between place to place. 

Dead Man's Wash. Bloody Wash. Broken Back. Tombstone. 

But he'd also talked about a little town called "Why?", complete with its question mark in   
the town's name, and another town called "Hope," both outposts on the edge of larger   
spans of desert, both run by retirees whose dream it had been to have a place in the   
middle of Nothing that was their own.

What was out here, streaming by the window of Victor Hosteen's pickup truck, was   
blooming, yes. There was no denying from looking at the ground line that in the heat of   
summer it would be a barren and unforgiving place. But there was some green on the   
scrubby brush, and here and there small patches of purple and yellow flowers moved out   
among the flat places like footprints.

There was a storm well out over the desert, the expanse so uninterrupted and vast that she   
could actually see where it began and ended, and through the beams of sunlight washing   
around it, she could see the areas where it was raining and where it wasn't. 

"Been storming all morning off and on," Victor said from beside her, both his calloused   
hands on the steering wheel, which trembled slightly as they rode over the cracked   
highway. She hadn't seen another vehicle of any kind since they'd entered the   
reservation. 

"But it looks so far away," she said, nodding to the storm clouds. 

"Oh, things move fast here," he said, smiling a crooked smile that showed straight white   
teeth. "Things blow in and blow out before you know it." 

She forced a smile. He was a happy man in some way she couldn't understand, and he   
was hoping to move some of it into her, she could tell. At least something like hope.

Robin stretched in the seat, feeling her back creaking like a chair back. It had seemed an   
interminable flight from Dulles, flying all night in that strange otherworldly glow of an   
airplane's insides, lights going on and off all night. She had slept little, and eaten less.

"How much further?" she asked. They were coming to a crossroad that had no signs.

"Oh, just to the right and up a bit and we'll be at my grandfather's house," Victor replied.   
"Do you want to stop and say hello to Agent Scully first?" He sounded almost as though   
he wished she'd say "yes." 

She shook her head, and that same pit of heat began to bloom in her belly again. 

"No," she said softly, and her gaze went out the window again. "Take me to Paul." 

"All right," Victor said. "We should have something for breakfast still. You must be   
hungry." 

She didn't answer. In fact, she did say anything further, nursing the feeling in her belly,   
then in her chest, as though something choking her. 

Victor downshifted the truck as they slowed for the turn. He took the right without using   
his blinker, the truck picking up speed as it headed up over the rise toward the ranch.

 

****

 

ST. SEBASTIAN'S PUB  
TIEVEMORE  
NEAR ST PATRICK'S PURGATORY AND LOUGH DERG  
NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
10:32 a.m.

 

Bridget had stayed with him all the way back into the North. Christie'd stared at her   
staring mutely at him in the back of the white lorry his grandmother had arranged for   
him, a paper delivery truck that had a compartment in the back for checkpoints going   
from South to North. She'd been sitting on a stack of papers and every time the light had   
shifted as another car had passed on the narrow roads, peeking through the back windows   
with their small red taillights, he'd seen her face change and change again, her blue eyes   
mute and filled with either love or reproach. He couldn't tell. His grandmother had   
taught him they were fairly well close enough to be confused. 

At St. Sebastian's, the sign shot with arrows in someone's irreverent play on the Blessed   
Saint himself, he'd sat at the edge of the pub and watched the television sputter snooker.   
It bored him, but then it always had. He didn't know what he was waiting for, there with   
his pint at ten in the morning and a plate of eggs and sausage and a mound of potatoes the   
pub owner's wife had made him in the back, not knowing who he was by name but   
knowing he was someone she should feed.

He didn't know what he was waiting for - or who - but he'd know when it happened.   
Christie didn't know where Bridget had wandered off to when he'd come in, either, but he   
felt quite sure he'd find her again when he went on his way. 

"A bit early for it, isn't it?" came a voice next to him. He'd heard the man sidle up, of   
course, but he hadn't even given him a glance. The man's arm was close enough to his   
own bare forearm, his sweater pushed up, that the smoke from the man's cigarette felt   
warm on his skin.

"The pint, or something else?" he replied mildly, keeping his eyes on the television. The   
whole screen was faintly blue as the tube lost its light. 

The man chuckled, and now Christie did look at him, just a glance, that way of   
pretending to know someone that he was accustomed to. Drew less attention for being a   
stranger. Drew less attention for meetings.

He was about 60 probably, as everyone his grandmother sent him to these days seemed to   
be. He actually missed the States in some way because the people "involved" there were   
much younger. He felt like a ginger bird among old crows up here, though he'd never say   
that to anyone. One of the men he'd met in New York - Rutherford - had made him   
think he could have made friends with the man if they'd had the time. If things were   
different...

"Both," the man said, and put the fag down long enough to reach for Christie's hand. His   
knuckle had a nicotine spot the size of a pence. "Though I'm never one to frown on a pint   
any hour, to be sure."

Christie gave his hand a cursory shake, picked up his fork and took a bite of his meat,   
chewing. 

"What's going then?" he asked.

"Not much at the moment," the man said. He didn't offer his name and Christie didn't   
need to ask it. "Should have hopefully something of interest for you by evening, though."

"That's so," he said, still chewing. The sausage was particularly good. Home-grown and   
handmade. He could tell.

"Aye," the man said, pulling on the cigarette. "Don't know what yet, but we'll have   
something for you. If Renahan's involved this time with the Yanks, well...something   
good must be lying around to have a look at."

Christie didn't say anything to that for a long moment. "Thought it was just the husband   
here," he said, though he didn't know how he'd settled on that in his mind. Maybe it was   
because the man Mulder seemed the only one to matter to him. The only one to whom it   
would be personal. 

"No, no," the man said. "Another one. Assistant Director of the Fibbies. Guess they're   
bored over there." 

Christie nodded. "Skinner?" 

"Aye." The man took another drag. "Good man, I hear. Neither of them - him or the   
one Mulder - much to be trifled with, though we can handle them, of course."

"More worried about Renahan are you then?" Christie said. He spoke around a mouthful   
of eggs.

The man's face grew shadowed and his arm stilled, smoke rising from his hand. "More   
worried about Neill. Fucker."

Christie swallowed the food, washed it down with a mouthful of beer. "Aye," he said   
simply. "Should I stay here or meet you then?" he asked. 

"Get a room here at the Derg Inn," the man said. "I'll bring you what I've got by this   
evening. I've got a good man doing work for me on this and he'll come up with   
something." He stood.

"I go by Seamus," he said, and Christie looked at him full-on now. He knew exactly who   
he was now. The "go by" gave it away, those two words conjuring other words. 

Names. 

James Curran. That man he'd heard of only as "Shea." 

"Pleasure," Christie said, and the man reached out and touched Christie's shoulder in an   
almost fatherly gesture. 

"I knew your uncle," he said. "Well. I've known your family for as long as I can tell." 

Christie nodded. "I've known you that long, as well."

Seamus smiled. "You've done good work. Good things for your family. For your   
country. You should be proud, Christie. We're proud to be sure."

A faint smile. He wanted to feel proud. The child kicking the dark ball around in Antrim   
with his uncle, John's face not so hard then. Not the shell it became. The day he left for   
Basic, his uncle sheering his hair as he'd shorn so many sheep, Christie on his way to the   
"glaigh na h-Eireann. Special Forces. Black Ops. John used to sing some song he   
didn't know when he talked to him. "Demolition Man." 

Bridget's face was in mind. The scar on her shoulder. Stifled cum-cry in Belfast and   
something about "strangers on your bed..."

"You all right, Christie?" Seamus's voice floated back to him on a heavy wave. The   
warm weight of his hand was there again. 

"Aye," he said quickly, and he literally did give his head a shake, as though he'd been   
cuffed on the back of his head and was throwing off the blow. "Just thinking about   
something." 

Seamus gave that same smile, gestured to the plate. "Finish up there and head to the   
Derg and get some rest. I'm thinking you'll be doing some traveling before too long to   
see what's what in Cookstown. We'll have everything you need for your journey when   
you go."

"Ta," Christie said, and Seamus drifted off like so much smoke through the pub and out   
into the street. 

He sat, still caught in memory as gossamer and inescapable as walking through a spider's   
web. He reached up and brushed at his face. He did what he was told. He ate.

 

*****

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
10:48 a.m.

 

Mae Curran-Porter. 

She was trying the name on and trying to decide if it was something she could live with.   
Katherine sat in a high chair beside her at the end of a long wooden table constructed of   
an old door on sawhorses, the black knob up next to her. She worried it with her left   
hand as she wrote the name with the right, scribbling her signature like a 12-year-old girl   
with a crush on someone she barely knew in school. 

She turned the knob on the door, listened to the creak. She crossed out the "Curran." She   
put it back in. She'd dropped the name when she'd married Joe without a second thought   
because of the safety his name provided and the distance it granted from the past and its   
troubles. Troubles...

She looked at the baby's bright face, who was smiling and wearing a moustache of red   
stew. It was in her hair, and she seemed to know it and like the fact very much.

"Katherine Curran-Porter," she said to the baby, trying it on like her mother might have, a   
tone of reproach that sounded ridiculous to her own ears. The baby looked at her and   
smiled some more.

Behind her, she could see Frank Music coming up the path toward the house, a shy smile   
on his face as he raised a hand. He'd taken to wearing a cowboy hat, which she would   
have found funny except that for one thing, the sun was a bit unforgiving and she couldn't   
blame him, and for another, it looked sort of...attractive?... on him. 

Attractive...

She turned the word over, felt a flush on her face and pictured Joe's face and hated   
herself.

"Katherine Porter Whoever the Fuck We Both Are Now," she amended under her breath   
to the baby, and reached for a napkin to swipe roughly at the girl's face, taking the smile   
away with it. The baby's face screwed up like a fist.

"Hey," Music said as he indicated the bench seat on the other side of the table. Mae   
nodded, and he sat, taking off his hat and settling it down across from the knob. 

"Hello, Frank." She wadded the paper she'd been writing on up and tossed it in an oil   
drum that was being used as a trashcan outside the house she stayed in. 

"I'm not interrupting anything, I hope," Music said hesitantly, and she could sense his   
sensing her unease. 

"No, of course not," she said bitterly. "What the bloody hell would I be doing that you   
could interrupt?" 

She'd hoped to drive him off with her tone. She was good at that. She could be bitter as   
acid when she wanted. And she'd wanted to a lot lately, even to Dana, who'd been   
walking around like she'd been haunting the place since the Stone Age.

"You're just pissed at the world today, aren't you?" Music said, and he was smiling,   
which pissed her off at the world even more. 

"Aye, I am," she said, swiping at Katherine's hands, which made the baby even more   
perturbed. "What's it to you? You come needling me for something else? You need my   
father's fucking hat size now? Boxers or bloody briefs? My mum's recipe for potato and   
lamb stew?"

"I'll take that last one, yeah," Music said. "I bet that would be good." 

She stopped fussing with Katherine and looked at him, at that look in his eye. 

He liked her. He'd started to like her. Despite everything she'd try to do and everything   
she was. He liked her. 

Damn...

"I'm done interrogating you for Anti-Terrorism, Mae," he said softly. "I've given them   
everything you've given me, and if you have more you think will help as the case in   
Ireland continues to unfold, I'll pass that along. But you've told me a lot. You've   
probably told me a hell of a lot more than you wanted. So I'm done with that with you."

"Then be done with me," she said, but her voice couldn't even muster enough power   
behind the words to make it just above audible. 

"You don't mean that," he said softly, his finger worrying a whorl in the door's surface. 

Joe's face swam again before her eyes. Joe's kind face. Another man who had stepped   
onto the spinning disc of her world and gotten carried away into nothing. Swirl and   
vortex. That was her life. Heavy and uneven. 

Joe's face on fire behind the ruined windshield of the Jeep in Australia. It pushed tears   
from her eyes, her hand grasping the knob with a creak. 

"Hey," Music said gently. "I'm sorry." He reached out and touched her hand. Just a   
touch of his fingers on hers. "I didn't mean--"

"It's all right," she said quietly. She didn't move her hand. She didn't move at all. 

"I don't want anything," he added into the quiet. "I mean that. I don't want a thing. I just   
want...to be your friend. You know. I think you could use a friend. Somebody with no   
history with all this, you know? That's all." 

She looked at him, his eyes on the desert behind the house. "This place can be very   
lonely," he said.

"Every place is lonely," she said. She remained still. "Nothing changes that."

He nodded. "If that's what you want to believe, you can. But I really just want to try to   
be your friend."

Victor's pickup was coming up the dirt road toward his house, two small streams of dust   
going out behind it. Mae turned her attention to it.

"Men and women can never just be friends," she said quietly. "Too much gets involved."

He scoffed. "Oh come off it, Mae," he said, "You're being a little dramatic, don't you   
think? I mean, I'm talking about..." and he turned his attention to where she was looking   
as the sound of a loud slam reached them. 

The truck had stopped and a woman was getting out of the passenger side. She had   
lovely braids, a face darker than chocolate. Even from where she was sitting, Mae could   
see her eyes as she threw the truck door closed hard enough to break the old door's glass.

"Who's that?" Music asked, and he sounded vaguely worried.

"Granger's...friend," she replied, and watched the woman stalk inside.

*

Granger had heard the door slam, as well, and heard the truck's tired engine moving down   
the road toward the house. More than that, though, something in him could feel it was   
her the minute the screen door squeaked open. There was no heavy sound of a suitcase   
being hustled in. The niceties at the door with Sarah Whistler were quiet and brief and   
the younger woman's voice wasn't feather-light amusement as it tended to be. 

She'd pointed that way, too, because there were footsteps coming down the hall to the   
room where he stayed in the back of the house. Double bed, dresser, black and red rug   
and a lamp with a shade made out of hide. 

He stood as the door opened, feeling suddenly cold in his Hopkins sweatshirt he'd put on   
like armor. He pushed his hands in his pockets and faced her where she'd stopped in the   
doorway. 

One braid was hanging between her eyes and she smoothed it behind her ear.

"Hey." It was all he could think to say. He fought the urge to tuck his lip between his   
teeth the way he'd done with his mother and grandmother. Time to sit in The Mercy Seat   
once again...

"'Hey'?" she parroted back. She had one hand on the doorway and one on her slim waist   
where a thick white T-shirt snugged against her, tucked into black jeans. "How about   
you try again, Paul." 

Now his lip did go in, his eyes down behind their glasses. His heart - the damned thing -   
was racing a bit, starting that familiar ache, swimming upstream against the meds. 

"Try again." Her voice was quiet, like thunder of a storm far off but moving in.

"I'm sorry." He nearly whispered it. 

"Not good enough." She matched his tone, but now with the thunder was coming rain.

"I won't keep things from you again." 

"You mean 'lie.'"

Someone turned on a television in the outer room and country music starting playing.   
Rodeo. Again.

"Yeah," he replied, nodded. 

"Then say what you mean," she snapped. The tears were on her face now as he glanced   
up in the morning light, a thin sheen of it forcing through the drapes that looked like   
tablecloths.

"I won't lie to you again."

She moved fast. Two steps and her hands on his cheeks were enough to bruise his face.   
Given the amount of blood thinners Scully had prescribed him, she probably had actually   
done it. 

"You're goddamned right you won't," she said. The tears looked like lamp oil on her   
face, her eyes bright enough to set her alight. "You're goddamned right..." 

"Jesus Christ..." She said it slow, prayer instead of curse. 

The storm moved in, broke. 

Her arms were around his neck, crushing him against her. He returned the embrace,   
feeling her ribs against his forearms, the great gales of air she pulled in and pushed out,   
the space above his sweatshirt wet. He laid his palms on her back, holding her against   
him and felt his jaw go tight. 

He had not cried before that moment about any of it. 

He turned his face into the nest of her hair, breathed deep as a first breath. A sound   
moved up his throat. In the house the television went off, making that strange, almost   
otherworldly sound coming from him seem louder, roaring in his ears. 

Over Robin's trembling shoulder he saw Whistler as she came in, took the knob in her   
hand, and pulled the door closed, her eyes down in a clear gesture of respect and her   
movements quiet as a ghost. 

 

*****

COOKSTOWN  
NEAR LOUGH NEAGH  
NORTHERN IRELAND, UNITED KINGDOM  
2:13 p.m.

 

"I ain't telling you a fucking thing." 

Mulder slammed his hands flat down on the table, swore to the Savior, his palms slapping   
like pistol cracks, and he pushed himself up and stalked away towards the door, saying   
something about "you fucking people" as he kicked the door open, letting in a bar of   
sunlight sharp enough to cut through the pub's dark. Renahan found it funny that   
Mulder's wife had been Irish, too, and wondered what she'd say to the remark. 

He said so, bubbling a chuckle. Skinner told him to "shut the fuck up" in that stark and   
wonderful way that Yanks could say that word. It sounded so much more like a true   
insult when an American spit the "u" out.

Eamon Neill merely smiled. Manny Brennan was scowling across the table from him   
like he'd just eaten the Christmas goose, and all he'd done was said exactly what Neill   
knew he would. 

"Manny," he said in most even voice, the one he used for crazy men and small children.   
"How many times do I have to tell you--"

"Aye, I know what you said that this fucking Brit nutter isn't going to run anyone in don't   
care, you say, don't care nothing about the past and what people's done and all that shite!" 

It was a long fast run-on rant punctuated with spit. Brennan was a bit too old to drink   
that much before four, but then he'd always held it bad. Neill remembered that well.

"Mr. Skinner?" Neill said in the same quiet tone, giving Brennan time to catch his breath   
and take another drink. The more the better. "Could you go see to Mr. Mulder and   
make sure he stays close by?"

He could see Skinner's back straighten. "Why?" he asked, clearly getting Neill's   
insinuation of something amiss. Something *was* amiss. 

Brennan had known they were coming.

"You know how hotheaded he is," Neill said, looking at Skinner with an extra dollop of   
Afters on his sympathetic expression. "His pregnant wife just in the grave and all. No   
telling what a man in that sort of state could get into." 

Skinner's brow quirked. Message received and understood. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah,   
you're right." He pushed back from the table and stood. 

"Come on, Renahan," he said to the man beside him. "Come help me look for Mulder.   
You can apologize for being a dickhead about his dead wife."

Renahan put on a faux expression of regret. "Yea, bad that. Sorry for the trouble..." And   
Skinner helped him out.

Neill took the opportunity to look around the pub, filling as the day got later. Snooker   
was on the television and people were pretending to watch it as they watched Skinner and   
Renahan leave. 

Something wrong. Very wrong here in Cookstown, near the strand at Lough Beg...

"You leave that man ALONE," Brennan said under his breath on wheeze. He said it as   
though he didn't like people around him even referring to a gender. An individual.   
Anything at all.

"I don't want anything from him but to know who did this to this man's wife," Neill said.   
"That man's wife did us a service. We can do her husband one in return and then call it   
finished, can't we then. The whole thing done."

Brennan's face was blotched stone. "You with that man after what he did to us." The   
reproach fell, leaden, between them.

"I want it over." He said it slowly. "I want to be done with it. I want this man Mulder to   
be done with it. I want to whole damn thing over."

Brennan blew out a breath, his lips wet. "Jesus, we all do, Eamon. Jesus, we all do..."   
He took another drink. 

"Then tell me where to find him," Neill pressed. He was trying to work quickly as the   
pub door continued to open and close, new faces coming in, as Mulder and Skinner and   
Renahan were out in the town with people who knew who they were, why they were   
here...

Not too fast, he reminded himself. Brennan always gave a little squeal if you gave him   
enough time - and Guinness - to do it in. 

"I don't need a name. I met him myself. I'll know him from sight." 

Brennan looked down into his beer, studying it, looked up in Eamon's face. 

"You've never turned your back on us," he said, seeming to come to some conclusion   
despite the uncertainty in his voice. 

"And I'm not doing it now either," Neill said. And he wasn't. He knew that for a fact.

Brennan didn't nod or move anything but his wet, wet lips. 

"The boat shop in Ballycastle," he said. "He comes in and gets bait and line. You'll   
know him because they don't never let him pay." 

Neill nodded. "Bless you, Manny," he said quietly, so only Brennan could hear him.   
"Bless you." He stood, left enough money on the table to cover all the tabs and a bit   
more for Brennan's trouble.

Brennan picked up the pound coins and threw them hard on the ground, seeming to enjoy   
both their loud clatter and the looks they received. 

"Fuck you," he spat. It wasn't in his eyes, though, but Neill did not smile. He acted the   
part Brennan'd written for him and left, looking small, as if in shame.

****

The man saw the American moving through the streets, pushing his dark hair back in   
frustration, his strides long enough that the man would himself have to run to get to him   
if he so desired. 

Luckily, he did not. The car had been right where the note at the butcher's shop had said   
it would be, parked among some motorcycles down an alleyway. They'd tried to make it   
inconspicuous, and, in fact, if everyone in the town hadn't known it was coming and the   
number on the plate, they might have succeeded in keeping it safe.

The American, then the other, then the Brit. All down the main road in town, the   
younger Yank heading toward the Ardoe Cross as though he meant to hang himself on it. 

The right tool for the right job held in this case, as well, as the man jammed the pick into   
the lock and gave it a hard pull, coring it through. The boot lid popped open and the man   
was confronted with a stack of suitcases. He checked tags. Anything with "U.S.A." or a   
Union Jack he took, transferring into the back of his tiny pickup, a painters tarp heavy on   
top. 

He closed the lid - useless now - but it wouldn't pop until they hit a bump in the road.   
He'd have time to get back to Tievemore before they'd even figured out it was all gone.

As he hefted the bags he felt an unmistakable weight in one of the Americans' bags, a   
heavy rectangular and particularly electronic shape. 

Laptop, he thought, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine. 

Maybe when they were done cleaning it off, having a look, they'd let him have it. He   
might ask for that as part of his pay. 

The alley gave way to the main street, and he could see the Americans on the corner with   
the Brit, the young man with the dark hair - the one who's wife was dead, they said -   
raging in the Brit's red, amused face. 

Sorry for your trouble, he thought to himself, turning and heading out of town toward   
Omagh, traffic light and moving fast to the west. 

 

*******


	4. Chapter 4

THE TRAILER  
ALBERT HOSTEEN'S PROPERTY  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 3  
6:32 p.m.

 

If she thought about it hard enough, she could remember exactly the  
way the sky looked the first night Hosteen had shown up, looking for  
all the world like an apparition coming through the near-dark, his  
horse named after an apparition walking almost silent in the   
space between the trailer and the house. If she tried to remember, she  
could feel the depth of the emptiness that had been in her then as  
she'd watched him come toward her, the bag of freshly cooked lasagna  
in an aluminum pan swinging from the horn of the saddle, the light in  
his eyes. 

That emptiness she'd felt in her then, as cold and complete as a  
cave's, was so different from the fullness she felt now, and it  
helped her not pursue the memories too hard this night. 

The sky was burning at the horizon, but it was turning that cobalt  
blue specked with stars she'd always associated with this place. That  
familiarity, Bo's warm chin and the feeling of Rose's foot pushing  
against her hand through the soft material of her shirt gave her a   
measure of comfort, something she'd been in short supply of as of  
late. 

As though knowing she would seek solace here, someone - probably  
Hosteen himself - had left a full stack of small logs and the fire  
pit full of kindling soaked in oil. She'd been able to build the pit  
up to a lovely, warm fire in a matter of a few minutes, the metal  
chair creaking as she leaned back in the chair, her hands folded  
between the mound of her belly and her fuller breasts for added  
warmth. Tiny dots of sparks climbed up toward the sky,   
and she followed them with her eyes. 

There it was again. The quiet pressure in her mind. Something  
pressing, a familiar and warm sensation. She closed her eyes and felt  
for a moment as though she could hear a voice in her mind. She could  
smell something, the scent of a hairline. She would know   
the smell anywhere. 

Something uncomfortable for a beat, a burst of distress--

She drew in a breath, her hand tightening on the bump of the foot  
beneath it.

The baby rolled inside her, and instantly the feeling ebbed, as though  
she'd been hearing a soft noise in the distance and it had drifted  
away.

She knew what she had felt, but she wouldn't even put it into order in  
her mind. She couldn't. She wouldn't. Not yet.

Bo looked up, sensing movement. A log fell in the fire pit, sending up  
the flurry of sparks, but it wasn't that he had heard. Somewhere she  
could hear footsteps. 

"Dana?" 

She relaxed immediately. She felt safe here at the Hosteen's, safer  
than she'd felt anywhere. She felt safer here with her back against  
this trailer, its hulking quiet shape, than she did anywhere on the  
property. But too much had happened not to be too careful. 

"I'm here, Mae," she called back, and then Mae emerged from the  
shadows that were gathering around the fire as the sun began to  
finally give way to the night. She was tucked into a barn jacket,  
brown, and jeans. Her long hair fell in its wild dark curls down   
over her shoulders and back, and looked as if the wind had been  
tussling with it as she'd walked. She was smoothing it down with her  
fingers as she came around the fire pit to the other chair on  
Scully's left. 

"I'm not intruding?" she asked, and Scully gave her a faint smile,  
appreciating the gesture. 

"No, of course not," she said, and nodded to the chair. Mae sat in it,  
leaned forward and held her hands out toward the fire, her palms  
reflecting the light.

"Cold," she said. "I still can't get over the fact that it's so bloody  
cold here." 

"It won't be soon," Scully said, knowing the fact well. She could  
still remember the heat of the Bronco for those months, the swelter  
of sleeping in the back, hidden off some highway. She wondered what  
Mae and Joe had done with it...

She remembered cleaning Mulder's blood from the backseat with Granger.  
Grim scrubbing in the hospital lot.

"Let's hope we're not here when it gets that hot either," Mae said  
sourly. "No place for an Irish girl to be in summer, I can tell that  
already." 

Scully laughed. "You don't have to tell me," she said, bemused. 

"Yea, we're the two sides of it, aren't we? The redhead and the curly  
black with the blue blue eyes and skin like paper..." Mae said,  
rubbing her hands together. She reached down and rubbed at Bo's neck,  
though Scully couldn't tell if she was doing to comfort the   
dog or further warm her hands. Scully didn't answer. 

"Where's Katherine?" she asked after a beat of silence had fallen. 

"Sarah's staying in the house with her," Mae replied. "I needed a  
break. A walk to clear my head. And since Mr. Hosteen's got Sean I  
thought I'd take advantage."

"She doesn't mind," Scully replied, her ear picking up the  
self-reproach in the final word. "Sarah. She'd say if she did." 

"She'd bloody well say anything, I'd venture," Mae said, sounding  
baffled. "I mean, no offense if you're fond of her, but that woman's  
a bit...off."

"No offense taken," Scully said. "And no argument either. But I guess  
I'm just used to it by now."

"Used to which part of it?"

The edge in her friend's tone brought her out of the sleepy, easy  
tenor they'd been speaking in and took her gaze from the fire to  
Mae's face. 

Which part of it, indeed. 

"Just...the way the people here talk sometimes," she stumbled. 

"Uh huh," Mae said doubtfully. 

"What?" Scully said, feeling her hackles rise. She didn't want to be  
venturing into this territory at all, and to do it with the  
near-tease or near-challenge that Mae was using...no. 

"Come on, Dana," Mae said. "You don't have to hide it from me. You can  
stop trying. I know." 

"No, you don't," she said, her voice hardening even further, a patina  
of defense. 

"That drug has never stopped, has it?" Mae said, her tone quieting,  
most likely from guilt or regret. "It's changing you. Still. Doing  
things to you. Making you see things." 

It was more blunt than Mulder would have said it. But then, Scully  
realized, Mae probably understood more, having been part of the whole  
thing. She'd tried to forget that part, as well. 

She thought about denying it. She even tried to form the words. But  
what came out was the single quiet syllable of "yes." 

Mae nodded. "About fucking time," she said under her breath, and gave  
Scully a wry smile. 

Scully looked at her, the sky seeming suddenly very dark and the fire  
very bright. She smiled a faint smile, something in her opening and  
glad to be doing it. 

"What was it you saw the other day?" Mae asked. "When you were with me  
down and Victor's and you left in such a hurry?" 

(The little girl in her mind, standing in the doorway. Pajamas. The  
smell of her and Mulder in the bed.)

"I saw...Rose. My daughter."

Mae nodded. "So when you see these things, what are they like? I  
figure you can tell things that are going to happen. Because you knew  
Katherine was going to tip the frying pan that time. The day we got  
here."

Scully returned her gaze to the fire. "Yes. They're things that will  
happen, I think." She paused, a log dropping and the fire hissing for  
an instant. "It's hard to explain. It's like I'm watching myself but  
I'm also there while it's happening. It's like a memory but it's   
also like it's happening that moment because I don't know how what I'm  
seeing will end."

"Like it's happened already but is happening?" Mae tried, her brow  
creased. 

Scully nodded. "Yes," she said. 

"Which is why they're so upsetting to see," Mae continued,  
understanding. "Because you can't tell where you are in them -  
remembering or seeing what's to come. Like Katherine and the pan."

Scully nodded again. "Yes. To some part of me...she was already  
burned. I could see it. Smell it." 

"Christ Almighty," Mae said. "I don't think I could handle seeing any  
of that."

Scully shook her head. "That's not the part that bothers me the most,"  
she said. "The worst part for me is that when I come out of whatever  
I've seen, I realize that what I've seen *will* happen. When it's its  
time to. And I know."

"But it doesn't always," Mae said. "You knew that Katherine would tip  
the pan and you stopped it. You knew that bomb was outside the hotel  
in Washington. Doesn't that mean you can change what you see?"

Scully shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I think only if I can  
stop...the dream, if that makes sense?...before it's allowed to  
finish itself. They're like dreams. Very real dreams. But if they get  
to their end...I lose the control to do anything about what   
happens within them. They become real or true...inevitable."

"So it's like waking yourself up before you hit the ground when you're  
falling in a nightmare." Mae picked up another log from beside her  
and tossed it into the fire in a hail of sparks that made Bo jump. 

"I suppose," Scully said, her mind turning it over. "I don't know. I  
don't really understand it." She quirked a smile. "And to think I had  
the audacity to rewrite Einstein's theories when I was 21. To take  
issue with his idea that things weren't linear or absolute in their  
place in time. I'm the proof that ruins the entire theory I designed.  
I just didn't know it at the time."

"You rewrote Einstein?" Mae laughed. "What a rebel," she said. 

Bo laid his head down on Scully's foot again, breathed out, and went  
to sleep.   
"I had my moments," Scully parried mildly, a smile she hoped appeared  
Sphinxian on her lips. 

"Oh yes, yes," Mae said, laughing. "Let's hear of the wildness of Dana  
Scully. What'd you do? Change your saddle shoes before the bell rang?  
Break fast before Communion? Come in at 12:01 for the midnight  
curfew?" 

Scully blushed. "I *did* smoke a cigarette once," she said, choosing  
the most innocuous of her sins on purpose to play along. 

"Ohhhh..." 

"Yes, I did," Scully said, mock-somber. "I snuck downstairs and smoked  
a cigarette outside in the dark." 

"How old were you?" Mae said. "Twenty-two?" She laughed.

Scully looked at her, and realized that buried beneath her amusement  
at the whole thing, she was a bit...hurt? 

"Is that what you really think of me?" she asked. 

Mae grew more serious, considering. Scully realized that Mae knew  
she'd trodden a bit hard on her ground. 

"The person you are now? No. Not at all. You've risked too much and  
you've done too much and you've taken too many knocks along the way.  
That's clear to me about you." 

Scully regarded her, her eyes grateful for the words, the  
understanding. 

"But you at 15 or 16? I imagine smoking a cigarette was the worst  
thing you could manage." 

Scully closed her eyes, the fire dancing on her lids. She saw her  
mother. Melissa. Charlie. Bill. 

Her father's stern and kind face she would rather die than have look  
on her with anything but pride.

"Yes," she said, opening her eyes to the firelight. "It was."

Mae was quiet, and they sat in a companionable and comfortable silence  
for a long moment that Scully drank in like water. 

Mae was her friend. A friend as worn and old as a favorite book, and  
growing as familiar now, too. She couldn't remember another woman  
ever having that place with her, and she was grateful to have it,  
even at its price. 

"The worst thing I ever did...well, you might find other things  
worse..." Mae hesitated, and Scully could hear the regret. She could  
only imagine of what. 

"Tell me," she said gently. 

Mae must have heard the lack of judgment. "Well," she said, and she  
looked past the fire, as though someone might be listening. "I...I  
was friends with a Protestant."

She couldn't help it. A choked laugh burst from Scully's throat. "Oh  
my..." she said. 

"Well, bloody well think of it!" Mae exclaimed. "James Curran's  
daughter? Sitting behind the old farmhouse on the Greaves property  
with Bridget and learning a *hymn*?" 

"I imagine your father wouldn't have approved, no." She'd stopped  
laughing now that she thought about it. For a man who symbolized the  
Cause, it would not have looked good at all. 

"He'd have beaten me half to death," Mae said grimly. "Or to death.  
Singing 'Be Thou My Vision' with a Protestant girl. But I couldn't  
help it. I liked the song. Bloody Protestants. Everyone knew they got  
to really *sing*!"

Scully burst out again, and Mae joined her. 

"Do you still know it? The song?" Scully asked as they grew serious,  
the stars brighter now, the sky less dark. 

"Do you still remember the taste of that cigarette?" Mae asked. "Of  
course I do."

"Sing it for me," Scully said. 

"I can't carry a tune in a pail, Dana."

"I don't care," Scully said. "Sing it for me." 

Mae looked around again, and then, only slightly more on-pitch as  
Scully could have managed herself, she began:

"Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;  
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art  
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,  
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light..."

The words hung in the air, in the firelight. Scully smiled. "It's  
really beautiful. Not just the words but the tune."

"It's from the 7th century," Mae said. "An Irish folk tune."

Scully thought about it, turning the words over in her mind. The tune  
seemed to hang in the air like the smoke trickling up from the fire,  
disappearing into the sky and its starlight.

"I know why you think that was the worst thing you did as a child now  
that I hear it," she said, and looked at Mae. 

"You do, eh?" Mae asked. "Why's that then?"

Scully nodded. "Because you realized you and Bridget believed the same  
thing."

Mae looked down, an exposed expression on her face. Scully reached  
across and laid a hand on her friend's arm, her fingers resting there  
as Mae's eyes brimmed with tears.

 

*******

THE DESERT  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
9:03 p.m.

 

Albert Hosteen couldn't see the fire in front of the trailer from  
where he was, but when he looked east toward where he knew his house  
sat, its television on and talking to no one, he knew that the fire  
was burning nonetheless. He'd moved around Agent Scully all day,   
sensing something growing in her like a fire, something set and  
building, and knew she would seek solace in the desert. 

The desert's quiet was its greatest gift. That and its ability to take  
on whatever was inside a person. Sometimes barren landscapes were  
what people needed to see most around them because it was what was  
within them. Barren spaces and wide skies. 

Hosteen smiled at the thought, firelight dancing on his own face. He  
hoped Agent Scully saw sky this night, the sky and its stars. Just as  
Sean Curran was seeing before him, his eyes wide as stars as he gazed  
upward, his small mouth open.

"They're looking at you," Hosteen said in a quiet voice. "Watching  
you." 

Sean was across the campfire from him, the bandana around his forehead  
and the dingy feather sticking up from its back like a gray finger  
pointing upward. Since they'd settled in around the fire, Cloud and  
Ghost tethered to a small tree off to the side and nearly out   
of the fire's corona, Sean had reached up to touch the feather, as  
though worried it would disappear. 

At Hosteen's words, Sean looked from the stars to Hosteen's face,  
seeming vaguely afraid. 

"Nothing to worry about," Hosteen replied. "Stars are the best ones to  
watch us. Some of my people believe they are our ancestors looking  
down on us, guiding us, making sure we stay out of harm's way." 

Sean's eyes returned to the sky, and this time when he looked up, he  
didn't look quite as pleased. Albert saw him swallow, and realized  
what the young boy saw. 

His father's face in the dots of light. His father's eyes.

"Hmm," he said. He picked up the pipe he'd left beside him, already  
stuffed with tobacco. There was a dry stick beside him from the pile  
of kindling and he touched it into the fire and lit the pipe with it,  
breathing out sweet smoke. 

"Sometimes we surprise them with what we do," he said as Sean  
continued to look up, as though trying to decide which of the stars  
he should hide his face from, which one was glinting at him.  
"Sometimes we do not turn out the way they wish we would have, and   
often that is the best thing for us. Even if it is not for them." 

Sean looked at him again, the boy's eyes large and wet. His mouth was  
a line, thin as a cut. He said nothing, but he nodded. 

Hosteen nodded back, his eyes squinting a bit as he drew his long legs  
up so that he could wrap his arms around his knees, the pipe held  
lightly in his hand. A breeze fanned the fire gently for a few  
seconds, the light growing brighter and the stream of smoke and tiny   
sparks turning east for a beat. 

Sean reached up and touched the feather again. It made Hosteen smile  
faintly. The boy thought the feather contained some magic. 

And perhaps it would.

"Are you ready for your Trial?" he said, and Sean looked at him again,  
his hand still on the feather. He looked both terribly young and  
terribly old at the same time. He also looked both determined and  
afraid. 

Hosteen gave a nod, reached beside him and picked up a large black  
feather, the flight wing from a raven that drove Victor crazy at the  
ranch. The thing hung around picking at pieces of tinfoil from the  
fire pits, feathering its nest with the stuff and making a racket.   
Victor had been trying to drive it off for months. 

Hosteen was glad he hadn't now. The feather glinted with its faint,  
oily sheen in the firelight. 

"To become a Crow, you will have to go to a place I tell you to go,"  
Hosteen said in his best somber voice. 

Sean nodded, and started to rise from the Indian-style position he sat  
in, his Arizona Cardinals jacket gathered around him.

"Wait," Hosteen said, putting up a hand, and Sean froze, settled back  
down again, looking contrite. 

"This is not an easy task I give you to do," he said. "That is why it  
is a Trial. And you must also remember that the place I send you to  
is a special place. It is a secret place. It is a place that only the  
Navajo know of, so my sending you there is a special privilege for   
you. A special honor. Because of that you must keep the place and the  
task I give you to do there a secret, as well. Do you understand?"

Sean looked at him, his head turning slightly. Hosteen smiled at the  
curious and excited look the boy wore. He looked, for once, like a  
little boy. Sean nodded.

"I have your word?" Hosteen asked, speaking around his pipe. The mock  
Chief voice was gone, because he did, indeed, need Sean's word.

Sean nodded again. 

"Then give it to me." Hosteen said. "I will not let you go until I  
have your word. Your promise." He held the feather before him, his  
long fingers on its thick quill. 

Sean looked at it, nodded. His mouth opened from its line. 

"Promise," he said, and Hosteen was surprised again by the lightness  
of his voice. 

"Hmm," Hosteen grunted, and set the pipe down at the edge of the fire  
pit. "Then come with me," he said, and he rose, Sean coming up with  
him. 

There was a hill behind them, behind the horse and pony, out beyond  
the light of the campfire. The moon was out, big and white as an  
opal, and it turned everything a vague shade of blue, just enough  
light to find the way. 

Not that he needed it - he could find his way on this trail by memory  
\- but behind him, Sean's fast breathing told him the light was good  
to have. 

Even with it, Sean stumbled on the occasional rock. Hosteen didn't  
help him or turn. They walked, up the long incline heading toward the  
top.

Finally, Hosteen felt the ground give way to a flat place, and he  
looked in front of him, felt Sean pull up short, his breath drawing  
in awe.

Before them, a few hundred feet away, the pueblo stood, silent and  
gray, set into the side the mountain. Its neat windows were like  
eyes. Ladders led up to them, hewn in the traditional way with rope  
and branches, as the building had been made, with attention to   
every detail. His grandfather and his contemporaries had begun it  
here, in the cleft of a rock face, at the mouth of a cave, with  
bricks made of sand and straw. They'd molded them, stacked them. Made  
room on room, each connected. No separate houses. No separate rooms.

They'd made it, brick by brick, by hand, in the Old Way. 

And they'd kept it secret, in the Old Way, as well, adding to all the  
other Secrets. 

Sean was standing, agape. Albert looked down at him, and there was  
enough light to see Sean's eyes.

"You will go into the doorway on the left," he said to the boy. "The  
large main door between the ladders going to the second floor.  
Inside, there is a flashlight and a bowl I placed there for you. The  
bowl is filled with red paint. Put your hand in the bowl and   
make a print of your palm on the inside wall. You will see many other  
marks, but do not touch anyone else's mark."

Sean swallowed, looking at the dark expanse between him and the  
pueblo. He looked back up at Hosteen. 

"Put your hand among the marks and come back to me here and I will  
make you a Crow." He showed Sean the feather again, held it before  
the boy's face so that when he looked down it was bisecting Sean's  
face with a long black stroke.

Sean looked out again, and for an instant Hosteen didn't think he  
would do it. 

But then he nodded, and started, clumsy, down the trail.

Hosteen could hear his small feet slipping, the overturning of small  
rocks. As Sean's form moved through the darkness, he squatted down,  
the feather light between his fingers, and settled down to wait. 

Ten minutes. Fifteen. He could no longer hear the sound of the boy's  
feet. 

Twenty. 

He rubbed the feather's blade, rough one way, smooth the other. He  
worried it between his fingers. 

Then he saw the tiny light come on in the doorway, a penlight, like a  
candle being lit in pueblo's vast insides. 

Five minutes more. The light went out. 

Hosteen smiled. 

Ten more minutes and Sean was stumbling up to him, winded. Hosteen  
looked down at him as Sean stopped in front of him, drawing in huge  
lungfuls of air.

"Hmm," Hosteen said, stern and self-important. "Show me your hand."

Sean did as he was told, and even in the cornflower moonlight, his  
hand looked like it wore a glove of blood. 

"Good," Hosteen said, and laid the black feather down on the red,  
watching Sean's face transform from tired fear to something else.  
Something new behind his smile that looked like pride.

 

*******

DERG INN  
TIEVEMORE  
NEAR ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY AND LOUGH DERG  
NORTHERN IRELAND, UNITED KINGDOM  
9:38 p.m. 

 

"Let's have a look at this pretty little thing then," the man Christie  
knew only as "Pierce" said almost fondly, taking the silver-white  
iBook into his hands from Seamus. Christie's room at the Inn was  
small, but the desk in the corner was old and large, big enough for   
Pierce to have spread his tool kit and a second laptop, already  
humming fully booted, on it with enough room for the Apple to spare.

Two tools and he had the casing off, the sleek laptop looking exposed  
and vulnerable beneath the lights. 

"Jesus will you look at what's gone into this little hummer?" Pierce  
said, pointing to a piece of equipment that Christie didn't  
recognize. 

"What's that then?" Christie asked.

"Bloody satellite modem. Lord only knows where it's sending signals  
to, but that looks like some sort of Chinese thing. No one's supposed  
to have that." He put a magnifying glass over it, breathing out so  
that he steamed the lens a touch. "Aye, Chinese all right.   
Somebody's got a secret about how they got that thing, that's for  
sure."

"You can keep it once we get anything we need off the thing," Seamus  
said sourly, and Christie appreciated his hurrying Pierce along. The  
man stunk of cigars and too many days in the same clothes and  
Christie'd just as soon have not had him around.

"All right, all right, Jesus..." Pierce said, and uncoiled a long  
black cord that plugged from his own laptop into a port on the back  
of the naked iBook. "Give me a minute..."

He turned on the Apple without opening it, which hummed to life, not  
on its own screen - which Pierce hadn't opened up at all - but on  
Pierce's. It immediately asked for a password before it would allow  
the desktop to come up. 

"Pain the bloody arse..." Pierce hit a few buttons, his computer  
launching a program that immediately began scrolling numbers in a  
column, too fast for Christie to watch them. It narrowed the password  
down to eight digits then began to fill them in one at a time. 

Pierce had clearly brought the right tools, just as Seamus said he  
would. 

28131002\. A numeric code that meant nothing to him at all. The desktop  
appeared and Seamus and Pierce leaned close.

"Almost nothing on it," Pierce pronounced. "Microsoft Word. An ISP and  
an email program. That's it."

"Damn," Seamus said softly. "Get whatever's in the Word program to  
open," he said. "Maybe they're keeping notes or they brought some  
things along."

Christie sipped his tea from the white pot on the bedside table. The  
television, its sound turned down, kept showing an American western.  
Clint Eastwood...

"There we go," Pierce said, though Christie ignored him, intent on the  
film, Clint at a cemetery. "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly..."

"Christie."

Seamus' voice brought him back and he took the two steps back to the  
table, leaned in.

The screen was lit up with text:

"I'm thinking about you. Too much, probably. Wondering how you are,  
what you're doing with yourself. Thinking about the baby, and what  
you're feeling. I didn't think it would hit me this hard, this soon,  
but knowing you're so far away...it's just hard. I'm glad   
we have this, though. We've never really written letters before, and  
who knows?..." 

"Look at the date on the file," Seamus snapped. Christie gaped, his  
hand squeezing on the handle of his teacup to the point that he could  
have snapped it off.

"The eighteenth of March," Pierce said, not understanding the two  
men's reaction. 

"She's not fucking dead," Seamus spat, and turned away, his hand on  
his hips. "Son of a fucking *bitch.*"

Christie said nothing. He simply put the cup down and went to the  
wardrobe, drawing out his duffel. Again. 

Scully alive...

Something in him lived. Another part of him, however, started to die.  
Again.

"Get into that bloody email program," Seamus said to Pierce, though he  
was reaching into his pocket for his cell phone. "I want to know  
where she is. NOW." 

"Satellite modem will take a bit of time. More if it's scrambled,  
which I'm guessing it is." Pierce looked apologetic and bit afraid at  
Seamus' anger. Christie watched his face as he packed up his shaving  
kit, just opened, on the foot of the bed.

"Then get going!" Seamus roared, dialing. "As soon as Mulder figures  
out we've got that, it's not going to work anymore now is it?! So  
hurry the fuck up!"

"All right, all right...an hour..." Pierce started hitting keys, his  
hands flying.

Behind him, Seamus lowered his voice immediately, growing still as his  
cell phone line picked up. 

"Sorry to trouble you," he said, quiet. Respectful. 

Afraid. 

"I've got a bit of bad news..."

 

*******

OUTSIDE BALLYCASTLE  
NORTHERN COAST OF NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
APRIL 3  
9:37 p.m.

 

Mulder as almost relieved to see the lights of Ballycastle dotting the  
distance, despite the fact that every town they'd visited had not  
been what any of them, even, apparently, Neill, had seemed to expect.  
The kidnapping in Omagh. The strange reception in Cookstown   
where it was clear everyone knew they were coming and who they were.  
Even Belfast had not been what he'd expected, coming in after St.  
Patrick's Day, the festivities of America replaced with people filing  
in and out of Catholic masses. 

Neill hadn't been what he'd thought, and he was both sorry and glad  
for that. What he'd expected would have somehow been easier to deal  
with. And harder.

The only constant in the universe right now seemed to be Renahan,  
snoring against the back window, uncaring. Or seeming not to care. So  
perhaps he was wrong about him, as well. 

What *had* he expected? His arm against the door frame on the left,  
sleep gathering beneath his eyes in dark pockets, he asked himself  
this. What had sent him out of the bar in Cookstown, furious  
at...what? A man's unwillingness to speak? Silence seemed to be   
the indigenous language in this place. 

Perhaps, he mused bitterly, he should learn to speak it himself. 

It would be better than the ranting he'd done at Renahan and Skinner  
on the street, trucks and small dull cars milling by them on the  
street, the drivers' faces turned toward him in some variety of bored  
interest. He hadn't stopped until a man and a woman in what   
looked like a battered Mini had literally stopped to listen to him,  
the crazed American ranting at a Brit - ready to punch him in his  
laughing face, in fact - and using language that would make a sailor  
ashamed. 

He wiped at his face, his eyes, as though he meant to wipe the memory  
away, to smooth it off his mind with his rough palm. His hair was  
hanging a bit over his forehead and he smoothed it back.

"You need a haircut," he heard in his mind, Scully's face swimming  
before the lens of his memory. 

She was naked, on her side, propped on an elbow, her longer red hair  
touching the white cotton sheets. Their house. He was on his back,  
replete after making love for what felt like hours and could have  
been since its slow beginnings as they'd done dishes after   
dinner. 

Her side where the light from the night table was washing over it was  
specked with sweat, the dip of her waist, the small, just-burgeoning  
round of their child. December or January. A fire in the fireplace in  
the bedroom. 

"I was thinking of going all 'A Farewell to Arms' on you and growing a  
beard while you're pregnant," he'd replied, a wry smile on his face.  
He'd reached out and traced her breast with his finger, touching the  
pink of her nipple, which was going darker as the baby grew. "You  
know, let the hair go. Maybe grow a ponytail." 

He loved how she looked when she laughed, especially that laugh that  
was startled out of her like finches lifting off, the one that made  
her sound so young, despite everything that had happened to them. 

"I think that's a great idea," she replied. "I'll be sure and bring  
the baby by for her weekend visitations after she's born, too."

"At the music store where I'll be working," he laughed, warming to the  
image. "The one in Dupont Circle that still sells vinyl. I'll be  
behind the counter wearing a Dead Kennedy's T-shirt and smoking a  
Camel Unfiltered."

"Right," she said, giggling so that she shook. "Langley will walk in  
and pretend he doesn't know you." 

They both roared at that, a burst of lovely sound. 

Then he'd leaned up and drank in her laughter from her lips until the  
sound died down to a small, pleasured moan in her throat. He  
remembered the feel of his own weight on his hands as he'd held his  
body over her, his mouth on hers, then her throat, her shoulder, the   
pale soft plain between full breasts. 

He'd shaved every day but he hadn't cut the unruly curve of hair over  
his forehead. In everything that had happened, he'd simply  
forgotten.

Neill turned the car right at a crossroads, a sign pointing them to  
Ballycastle. From the crack in the window, he could smell sea salt  
and he found it vaguely comforting. This road wasn't as well  
maintained as the larger road they'd been traveling on, the pavement   
taking on the pale speckled gray of something worn. The tires ground  
on it a bit more loudly, and the car rattled faintly.

The lights of the town were growing closer, farms on the outskirts.  
They passed a place that advertised Fresh Catch, the sign older than  
Mulder was. He imagined what was sold there was quite good, though.  
Hooked fish and things drawn from the sea's dark floor.

"Just up a ways now," Neill said, his voice having to rise above the  
car's dull noises. 

Mulder nodded. Skinner was behind him, and Mulder heard him shift,  
anxious.

"Do you think we're going to get the same reception here as we did in  
Cookstown?" Skinner asked.

"What sort of reception are you referring to?" Neill said blandly,  
arcing the car to avoid a pothole the size of a tire. 

"The fact that everyone in the whole goddamn town knew who we were and  
why we were there," Skinner replied, biting it out, a touch of  
sarcasm peppering it.

Mulder looked to his right and saw Neill's lip curl. 

"Mr. Skinner, everyone in this area knows who you are and pretty close  
to why you're here. If you were looking to travel anonymously, you  
should have picked either different company or a different country.  
And it's not you they know, exactly. It's Renahan. And   
it's me." He smiled a bit more. "Sorry to spoil that American  
expectation you've got there, but it's not all about you this time."

He looked at Mulder and winked. Mulder chuffed. So true.

"And the fact that Mr. Renahan and I are seen sitting together  
anywhere without gunfire is getting a lot of attention." 

The smile melted off Mulder's face, and he regarded Neill seriously  
now. He looked at him for a long beat, the road's noise all the he  
heard. He could tell Skinner was thinking the same thing.

"What will happen?" he asked finally, a half thought.

"To what?" Neill said, his eyes forward.

"To you," Mulder said, finishing the thought. "After we've gone."

Neill shrugged. "Don't know," he said blandly. "Figure I'll manage  
that when it comes." 

"They'll kill you," Skinner said from the back. His voice had lost its  
sarcasm. It was the quiet tone Mulder knew from Skinner, one he  
rarely used but when he did, it spoke much more than his words. 

Neill said nothing, but he was clearly considering it, and not for the  
first time. The car bumped hard on its lousy shocks on a hole in the  
pavement, the first of two loud noises. The second was the trunk  
swinging up and hitting the back window hard enough to crack   
the glass.

"What the fuck--" Renahan startled awake. He turned in unison with  
Skinner and Mulder, wiping sleep from his face. "Boot's open." 

*

Five minutes later, beneath a dim, buzzing streetlight outside the  
town, Mulder stared mutely at the single bag in the trunk - Neill's,  
unopened and pressed against the back.

"Son of a BITCH..." he breathed, turning away, his hands on his hips.

"Looks like we'll be washing knickers in the sink," Renahan said.  
"Hope they enjoy the dirty ones when they get to where they're  
going." 

Mulder felt his heart turn painfully in his chest as he looked at the  
space where his bag had been.

"My laptop," he said, spinning to face Skinner. "They've got the  
laptop." 

Skinner's eyes widened, but Neill cut into his reply. 

"Who's 'they,' Mr. Mulder?" he said. "The IRA wouldn't steal your  
suitcases. They're not petty thieves, for starters, and besides,  
Cookstown's famous for having things nicked from cars."

Mulder shook his head, not believing. Too convenient...

"And you can be damn sure if it was IRA," Neill continued. "they  
wouldn't have done such a messy job on the lock. They'd have picked  
it and closed it up tight as a tomb again to make sure it took a  
longer while to find the things gone." He pointed to the cored lock.   
"That's a teenager looking for something to peddle." 

"Then why's your suitcase still there??" Mulder asked, his voice  
rising. He pointed to Neill's suitcase like it held some sort of  
proof. 

Like Neill was suspect in some way. In collusion. 

He could tell Neill saw that in the question, and it brought a smile  
to his face.

"First," he said in that calm voice of his. "because it doesn't have  
any airline tags on it like yours. Nothing to show it's from out of  
the country, especially not the *rich* United States." 

A twinge of anger flared in his eyes, like sparks from a fire. Mulder  
saw it, and then it was gone. Neill's gaze flicked to Renahan.

"And a Brit's suitcase they would take on principle, to be frank,  
especially one stupid enough to put a Union Jack on its side."

Renahan laughed. "Right!" he said. "Stupid fucking Brit! I hope they  
threw it in the lake!" 

Neill smiled at that. Then he leaned over and grabbed the handle of  
his bag, pulled it forward. He unzipped it and showed Mulder the  
contents. 

"And there's nothing in mine to take. Certainly not a shiny laptop  
like you've got, Mr. Mulder. Or interesting bits like Mr. Skinner.  
Cell phones. Extra clips for that Sig he's got at his belt." 

He pulled a belt from the bottom of the suitcase, brown leather.  
Mulder looked at him, caught somewhere between believing and wanting  
to believe.

"Come on," Neill said, pulling him back from where he was going. "Help  
me rig a way to close this so we can settle in and get some sleep.  
It's been a hard day."

Mulder took the belt, saw Neill's face grow dark in the light as he  
turned.

"I'd like," he mumbled. "for it to end."

 

******

ALBERT HOSTEEN'S HOUSE  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 4  
5:55 a.m.

White feet on a cold floor. Legs looking small in sweatpants, too long  
and gathered at her ankles, faded red. A nightgown's skirt draped  
around her knees. The baby seemed to be sitting on her lap now,  
Mulder's sweatshirt pulled over the nightgown and over their   
daughter. A pale hand curling into the fabric.

Scully turned her face to the strange light of morning pushing its way  
through the windows. Her breathing was returning to normal, but her  
face was slicked with sweat.

A dream, she told herself. 

(Blood on a linoleum floor. A little girl screaming. Her hand pressed  
against a child's face, covering her eyes...)

Mulder...

She shook it off, the baby turning inside her as she turned the  
thoughts away. 

A dream, she repeated. Nothing more. 

She stood, pushing herself slowly up to her feet, her hand on her  
lower back, which had begun to ache dully. She decided to forego a  
shower and began to undress. 

Nude, she stood in the center of the floor where a square of light had  
pushed through the glass, the sun coming up the colors of a peach.  
She let it settle on her skin, warming her and turning her skin  
bright amber and white. She held a white shirt in one hand like   
shroud, looking down at herself, saw blue veins beneath her skin woven  
around the baby like a net.

If the baby could cry, she would cry. She didn't know how she knew  
this, but she did. She put her hand on her belly's side, frustrated -  
not for the first time - by the distance between the baby and her  
hand.

Frustrated, there in the bar of light, with all kinds of distance. 

She shouldered and stepped into her clothes, taking time as she closed  
the white buttons of the shirt around her belly. 

She would spend this day alone. She would go where no one could find  
her, taking Bo with her like some shadow of Mulder he had always  
been.

She would hide from what she saw behind her eyes.

 

******

OVER THE ATLANTIC  
BRITISH AIRWAYS, FLIGHT 318  
(BELFAST INTERNATIONAL TO LA GUARDIA)  
APRIL 4  
9:30 p.m.

I see new things now. They're still of you and of Rose, but there's  
something hanging in what I see now, like shadow. There's a man  
somewhere, and there's screaming, and something like a gunshot.  
Something terrible is going to happen, and not only that but I feel  
it as though it's happening now, my body feels it now, and I'm  
afraid.

"What do you think it means?" Bridget asked from the seat beside him.

First Class was quiet, the lights dimmed. It was almost all men, ice  
cubes tapping in high- ball glasses as laptops scrolled spreadsheets  
and a movie played with no sound from video screens on each seat. 

Christie looked to the seat beside him, the stuffed leather, the night  
sky outside. The plane sounded like air. 

He looked at her, her blue eyes. They were changing again, the pupils  
gone now. Nothing but blue like water. The scar on her face seemed to  
be moving down her face.

He shrugged. He didn't want to speak. The few words he'd said to her  
in the cab on the way to the airport in Belfast had gotten the  
driver's eye on him the rear-view mirror in a way he didn't like. 

He adjusted the laptop on the tray in front of him, reached for his  
Coke and took a sip from the glass. The silver and white of the iBook  
gleamed and he considered the email again, looking for any clue of  
where Agent Scully might be from the words. 

Nothing there. Nothing at all. She was careful about what she said,  
never even calling her husband by name.

Seamus and Pierce were trying to trace it, track down the IP and hone  
down his search, but had found nothing yet. The computer used a  
satellite modem, they knew, and it was making things hard. 

He was to go to New York and wait with Conail Rutherford for further  
word. His grandmother had had someone else deliver the plane ticket  
and instructions. She hadn't spoken to him at all. 

Bridget curled up against the window and went to sleep, disappearing  
as she did so, as Christie turned the text over in his mind. Someone  
turned off their overhead light, the light from the monitor seeming  
to grow too bright.

Christie ran his finger over the touchpad, reconnected the modem to  
whatever spot in space it was linked to, tilting the monitor down a  
bit as a flight attendant drifted by. He doubted the pilot or anyone  
else would pick up the strange signal reaching out, but he   
didn't want them to know it was him if they did.

He touched "reply" on the window of the email, typed four simple  
words:

"I'm on my way." 

He hit "send," disconnected the modem again and shut the computer  
down, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes to the sudden  
wash of dark. 

******

 

ALBERT HOSTEEN'S HOUSE  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 5  
5:13 a.m.

 

It was the time of morning when the sun was coming over the sparse,  
silent expanse of Two Grey Hills, the strange hours when both the sun  
and the moon could be seen in the sky, the moon a faint outline of  
creamy white surrounded by the specks of stars, their lights fading  
as the yellow globe rose between the crags of the mountains. Light  
lodged in the juts of the peaks, bled its dry and sodium gold across  
the floor of Scully's bedroom, dust dancing in the still, still-cool  
air. 

The patchwork quilt - frayed, faded - had half-slid onto the floor  
beside the bed, Scully's hand alongside it, almost touching the  
floor. Were she awake, she might have been reminded of the first  
corpse brought in for her, its arm trailing from beneath the too-white  
sheet. Though that hand had been a man's.

In her dream, she could hear the rolling of the wheels against the  
linoleum floor, the squeak of the stretcher caused by the body's  
weight. She could see the light, harsh, a corona of silver around a  
too-bright bulb of fluorescence. Glint of instruments lined on a   
tray beside her. Scalpel and probe and saw and knife. Tubing. The  
scale hanging next to her, numbers blurred to zero as she looked at  
them through the vague distortion of her protective glasses.

(Subject: Male, Caucasian...)

(...Rose beside her, long dark hair in a braid, thick as rope but  
soft, soft as Scully ran her hand down her daughter's back, smoothing  
down the red wool of the slight yarn sweater. Rose in front of clear  
glass. Scully watched her reflection in its surface, her and her   
daughter frozen there like ghosts. 

"Can we?" Rose said, pointing. 

Scully studied her, the upturned face. The blue of her own eyes in a  
nine-year old face, her own small nose, and all the rest of her  
daughter's face Mulder. Pure Mulder. Including the half smile that  
made her wonder if Rose were laughing at some joke only   
her father might possibly understand. Mulder with a slide projector  
remote in his hand. Years ago.

"Can we what?" she heard herself ask. The sound of blues coming  
through a cheap speaker. A lottery machine biting out tickets. The  
vague smell of cold but spoiled milk. It all worked its way into her  
awareness and she looked around.

"Hey Scully," she heard Mulder's voice from behind her, and she  
swiveled. Mulder stood a few aisles over, a blue bag in one hand and  
a red in the other, high enough to be seen over the convenience  
store's aisles. 

"Cool ranch or Taco?" he called. He wore a suit, FBI standard, his tie  
slightly askew. Black and white. The strap of a shoulder holster  
showed as he raised an arm.

"Mom, please?" Rose insisted again. "Can we?"

"Can we what, sweetie?" she heard herself say again, but she was  
looking into the glass, into her own face, the reflection of her  
body. Her eyes widened. Her hand smoothed over the small round of her  
belly, tight mound beneath a loose white shirt.

(Four months. Four or five months...)

"Ice cream, Mom," Rose said, opening the glass door to the case,  
pushing their reflections away. Blast of cold air. Pints frosted with  
ice.

"C'mon, Scully," Mulder called again. "Ranch or Taco? Taco...Ranch...T  
aco...Ranch." His arms moved up and down with each word like the two  
sides of a scale, eyes mischievous. 

She looked back at him. Frost of gray beginning at his temples. It  
made her smile. 

"Ranch," she said to him, and he returned her smile. She turned to  
Rose. "Chocolate." 

Rose slapped her hands together and scrambled onto the edge of the  
freezer case, reaching for the mottled bodies of Haagen-Das. 

Slapped her hands together. The door jingled open, electric chime.  
Scully turned, sensing something. A bitter taste in her mouth as  
though she'd bitten her tongue. 

A man stood there, blues coming through the speaker. The woman behind  
the counter asked him if he'd bought gas. 

Her eyes scanned the store. Dark outside. Two cars in the parking lot.  
Theirs and a dark pickup, a man behind the wheel, his eyes on the  
inside of the store, on the man going to the counter in brown pants  
and a ratty brown sweatshirt. Shaggy hair, dirty. A beard...)

Even in her sleep she knew what would come next. She had heard it  
already, the vague echo of it the first time she'd seen this man's  
face. 

The child's screaming. Her child's screaming...

("FBI!" she shouted, reaching to the waist of her black pants, the  
small of her back, where her Sig was snug in its holster beneath the  
loose shirt. 

"DON'T MOVE!" 

The words seemed to echo around her, everything slowed. A movement at  
a time, like film a frame at a time, slides of a shutter. 

She saw Mulder's eyes go wide, the clerk's go wide. She took a step to  
the side and blocked Rose - (red sweater, pants covered with flowers)  
\-- who was still standing on the bottom edge of the freezer case,  
reaching, though her face had spun toward Scully at the   
sound of her mother's voice. 

The man turned, a gun coming up from beneath his shirt. .357 Magnum,  
black metal shining. His arm came up, the black eye of the muzzle  
trained on her.

Mulder was moving, a display going down as he rounded the corner. She  
could hear him screaming as though he were trapped beneath meters of  
water, his gun already out. The man was turning at the motion, the  
sound.

She held her breath. She could hear the breath draw in with a sound  
like wings. Rose called for her father, high and shrill as a sparrow.  
The little girl moved -

Scully lurched forward, grabbed, touched her daughter's arm, brush of  
fingers on soft hair, soft as yarn -

Mulder fired and the man staggered, a bloom of blood on his shoulder -

Rose was moving toward her father, Scully scrambling after her. A wild  
shot, a spider web opening on the front door to the store -

The ragged man's gun lit up at the end, bright as a flashbulb, the  
sound tearing around the room as the gun kicked the man's arm back -

And Mulder tumbling back as though he'd reached the end of a tether,  
jerked back from a cloud, a mist of red appearing like a clot of  
flies.

She screamed, got hold of Rose, who had stopped, her mouth an O, no  
sound. 

No sound --

Scully shoved her down, falling on her daughter's body, feeling the  
smallness of her daughter, the small weight of what she carried as  
she hit the floor, her breath knocked out but her arm up, the gun  
pointed. She saw skin wreathed with hair framed in the line of the   
sight and fired.

The man fell, the gun clattering. The clerk screamed from behind the  
counter into a phone, something about Cumberland and Broad. Something  
about blood. Something about *fuck* and something about *fast.* 

Too late, she knew, feeling Rose lurch beneath her, a sob. Blood was  
trailing already toward her, running. She had a bizarre memory of  
playing with mercury, the way it ran...

"Mulder..." she called into her daughter's hair. Her hand crept around  
Rose's face and covered the girl's eyes, holding on so tight Scully  
felt as though she were branding her. 

She cocked her head to the side, red hair falling in front of her  
eyes. Through the curve of the sides she saw him, legs akimbo. Arms  
thrown back. A hole the size of a saucer just below his throat. 

Rose moved, or tried to. Scully held. Scully stared. 

Mulder's eyes caught the light, held it in their stillness. His mouth  
was closed. No surprise. Nothing. The gun was still in his hand, his  
finger through the ring of the trigger guard.

She felt the air pull in so hard it burned her throat and felt  
something move inside her, beneath her. 

Rose began to scream.)

 

She heard nothing, not the sound of the chair beside the bed tipping  
as she struggled to stand, not the door as it hit the wall as she  
swung it open. Not the slap of her bare feet on the floor as she  
moved along the narrow hallway into the Hosteen's living room, the   
white nightgown she wore brushing her knees and then pressing against  
them as she burst out the front door, the screen door slamming  
against the house. 

A road, sand. The sun a yellow eye just over the hills, half asleep  
and half awake. She felt the tears on her face, color in her cheeks  
like fire. She looked one way, then the other, down the road and  
turned right, staggering. A sharp rock sliced into her arch. Off-  
balance, she fell onto her hands and knees.

She couldn't breathe. Air was hissing between her teeth. Her hand  
cupped her daughter, her hand pressing down. 

(Move. Movemovemove...)

She skinned her knees as she crawled a few feet and then pushed  
herself up and rose. Her white gown was now covered with dust the  
consistency of ash. 

Way off in the distance, a spiral of white smoke. Someone cooking. The  
far off sound of a horse like a cry. Over the hill would be the barn,  
the house. Mae. Granger...

(Movemovemovemovemove

RUN.)

 

*******

5:33 a.m.

 

Albert Hosteen sat up in his twin bed, the cold seeping in beneath his  
woolen blankets, through the cotton shirt he wore, its sleeves  
snapped at the wrists. He turned his face toward the window, a  
sound...

A sparrow on the windowsill, its body brown and shot with black  
stripes. Around its throat, a slice of white. He watched it for a  
long moment, sensing...something. He'd heard a sound, he knew. 

The bird sang. Six notes. Sadness at its center. Two notes like the  
syllables of a name. Then, with a flick of its wings, it was gone.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he let his feet hit the  
floor, cool still from the night. He reached for his jeans, his heavy  
boots, dressed in the morning light. Far off, he could hear the  
sparrow, the six notes. 

Out in the hallway, he saw Bo standing at the screen door, the wooden  
door open against the wall. The dog's ears were against his head, his  
eyes uncertain as he turned to Hosteen, who touched his soft black  
back, murmured to the dog that it was all right. Whish-te. All   
right.

He opened the door and the dog trotted out, headed off the patio and  
turned to the right, toward Victor's house, down the long dirt road  
that stretched the mile and some between Albert's house and Victor's  
ranch. 

"Hmm," he said to himself, reached for a battered cowboy hat, his long  
hair around his shoulders. The lines of his face cragged as he  
squinted against the light and headed out into the morning, his  
footsteps leaving puffs of dust. He followed Bo, knowing that to   
follow Bo was to follow Agent Scully.

At the center of the road, nothing but sky and sand around him, he  
kept his eye on the dot of the dog as it crested the first rise and  
disappeared down the other side. 

******

 

5:44 a.m.

 

Scully staggered past the quiet of Victor's house, her hair wet and  
stuck to her face with sweat, a strand of it trailing from the corner  
of her lip. She was freezing, her teeth chattering, despite the  
coming heat of the desert. Blood crept down from the cuts in her   
knees, occasionally catching the hem of the nightgown, sticking the  
fine cotton cloth to her legs. She could tell from her breathing, the  
cold, that she was in the early stages of shock. The baby knew, as  
well. She could sense her daughter's distress, the baby rolling   
within her. She kept her hand on her abdomen, her eyes wild, looking  
for anywhere to hide, any shelter. 

The barn. The barn door was open and the dark looked inviting. She  
could smell the hay and oat and hear the plaintive bleating of sheep.  
It was dark there. Safe...

Was there such a thing? some dim part of her mind thought. How could  
she ever be safe from things that hadn't happened yet, things that  
were to come? 

Don't think, she told herself. Go. Go.

She pushed open the gate to the corral, her arms shaking with the  
effort, light just beginning to bleed into the area around the worn  
barn, the color of old leather. The desert around her was turning  
red, light stabbing through a thin line of cloud. 

The door was cracked open and she went in, almost overpowered by the  
smells and the thick layer of dust, bits of it dancing in front of  
her as she moved. Horses arched their necks over their stall doors on  
her left to look at her, their eyes oily and wide. To her   
right, a clutter of sheep in a low pen, fat with their unshorn and  
dirty wool, lambs stitched in among them standing on pink, uncertain  
hooves. Chickens dotted the floor, pecking absently at the hay and  
scurrying to get out of her way.

There was a cleared area past them, a few meters from the back wall,  
on which were arranged Victor's hand-held farming tools - old rakes  
with cracked wooden handles, shovels, pitchforks. A table saw sat in  
the corner and its array of blades were hanging on nails on the wall,  
bright silver circles with teeth. Shearing tools, rolling carts made  
of canvas for transporting wool. 

There were small breaks in the roof and sunlight came through in bars  
of various sizes. Scully, more aware of the cold in the darkness  
surrounding the doorway, sought out the light, a circle of it on the  
floor just past the sheep's pen. Feeling the warmth on her face,   
she fell to her knees, then to her hands and knees, pulling in huge  
lungfuls of the musty air. 

A cramp in her belly, Rose rolling again. The feeling hitched her  
breathing, her hand clamping down on the curve of the baby. She had  
to calm down. She knew this. For both her sake and for the sake of  
her daughter, who could sense her terror and grief. She tried   
to push the images from her mind - the man's face behind the huge  
muzzle of the gun, Rose's body as she broke away, running towards  
Mulder as if her daughter could sense what was going to happen, knew  
her father was moving around the corner and turning to   
face not just the man but Eternity...

"No..." she said, squeezing her eyes shut and tears raced down her  
cheeks. She rocked back on her knees, hay clutched in each of her  
hands. "NO!" 

At the sound of the cry, shrill and high and filled with tears, the  
horses threw their heads back, their eyes wide with fright, hoarse  
cries coming from their throats. She could hear the sounds of their  
hoofs against the stall doors, loud thumps. One of them, a white and   
black paint, turned in the stall and kicked with his back legs,  
sending the rickety door flying. It shot toward the sheep pen, over  
the low rail and smashed onto the hapless animals inside it. 

(Mulder pulled back as if connected to a string, Mulder's blood  
bursting in a cloud, the ragged hole opening...)

The paint came out of the stall, its ears back, huge and angry. It ran  
at her there in the center of the stable, there in the light. 

She scrabbled a foot or so on her knees, her eyes now in new terror,  
the animal towering over, rising on its hind legs, front hooves  
fluttering the air in front of her, its eyes trained on her, its  
mouth open on a hoarse and furious cry. 

Scully opened her mouth and screamed, something inside her seeming to  
rend open, as though her chest had split open and something had shot  
out. She felt suddenly too hot, as though she were on fire, the fire  
rising in her with the sound of her voice, her hands, still   
clenching the straw, going to cover her eyes as though she meant to  
hold them in her face. 

She did not know what happened next. She heard and saw nothing. For an  
instant, she could do nothing but feel, and it was these feelings  
that broke out of her and became, for a moment...

Real. 

 

****

Albert Hosteen heard the sound of the scream as he approached the  
turnoff to the barn, Bo trotting along beside him, whining with his  
ears down. From Victor's house, Granger emerged, tucking his shirt  
into his jeans with one hand while he held his gun in the other,   
moving fast toward the barn, looking alarmed. Victor was behind him, a  
shotgun clutched in his hand. 

"Grandfather!" Victor called in Navajo. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

From the barn, Scully's scream, the sound of 20 horses trying to break  
down their stalls and their high, terrified cries. And underneath it  
all, the racket of sheep. Chickens were spilling out of the crack in  
the barn door, their wings flapping as they tumbled over each   
other. 

"Fire!" Granger shouted. "It must be on fire!" Robin and Sarah were  
coming out from the house behind them, both looking bleary and  
bewildered.

But Hosteen knew better. He quickened his pace. 

Pushing open the barn door enough to get through, stepping over the  
terrified hens, he stepped in...

And immediately dropped to the ground as a saw blade flew toward the  
door, whizzing in the air and embedding itself into the barn door,  
its teeth glinting. 

"Jesus Christ!" Granger cried behind him, following Hosteen's lead and  
dropping to a crouch, his eyes huge in his face as he took in the  
scene in the barn. 

Scully in the center, bloody nightgown, her back arched, bow-like, and  
a scream coming out of her mouth so long and so loud it seemed to be  
coming from the walls around her, not from her slight body itself. 

In front of her, the body of a horse, handles of tools protruding from  
its still form, blood everywhere. To the right, the pen of sheep  
bounding over one another, crushing each other, the heavy door of one  
of the stalls in the center, cocked, bodies of animals beneath   
it. A lamb was standing on its hind legs trying to climb the railing  
of the pen. 

"Oh my God!" Victor cried and ran forward, ducking as a shovel sailed  
through the air and clattered against the far wall. He knelt,  
fumbling with the latch to the pen and opened it, herding them, the  
white and gray bodies of the sheep now tumbling out as they tore for   
the door, past Albert and Granger and out. Victor followed them out,  
yelling to his hired hands for help. 

"Scully!" Granger called, loud enough to be heard over the unearthly  
sound coming from the center of the room, coming from everywhere.  
"Scully, stop!" 

Hosteen put a hand on Granger's arm. "Stay," he said simply. 

"No--"

"STAY," he said, more firmly, and Granger relented, reluctantly, but  
nodded. Robin and Sarah had crawled up beside him in the doorway,  
though neither woman said a word, their eyes on Scully. Robin was  
crying.

And Hosteen moved. 

Hunched over, as low to the ground as his over-six-foot frame could  
manage without crawling, Hosteen moved across the darkness of the  
narrow space between the stalls and the pen, now empty of everything  
but bodies, ruined sheep scattered on the floor as if they'd been  
dropped from some great height.

Which, Hosteen realized, they may have been. 

"Whish-te..." he murmured to the horses as he passed. "Whish-te..."  
Then he turned his attention to Scully as he edged closer. The  
screaming had stopped now, replaced by heaving sobs. Scully was  
shaking all over, her fists still covering her eyes. 

"Agent Scully," he called, his voice pitched low, creeping forward. 

Her hands dropped, the straw feathering down. She opened her eyes,  
grime caked around them and down her face. She drew in a breath, a  
deep breath as though she had forgotten to breathe at all for some  
time. Then her eyes fell on the horse in front of her, its head   
closest to Hosteen, the round of its belly in front of her. 

"Oh God..." she murmured, her voice scraped raw, choking. "Oh my  
God..." She crawled forward, ignoring Hosteen, and her hand, still  
shaking, reached out and touched the horse's still, soft neck, traced  
up to its ear, over its face to its still-open eye. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, to it and to Hosteen and to the air. "I'm  
so sorry." 

She hunched in pain, curling in on herself, her hand on her abdomen. A  
low moan came from her throat, her hand clenching the dead horse's  
mane. 

"Scully!" Granger called from the doorway, and despite Hosteen's  
directive, he started to come forward. 

"Paul!" Robin called, grabbing at his pants leg, but he got away. She  
started forward, but Sarah grabbed her.

The horses were calmer now, just the sound of uneasy shuffling in the  
stalls. Bo, low to the ground, ears flat in fear, followed Granger  
in. 

Hosteen reached Scully, curved himself over her, moving slowly, his  
hand on her back, then her waist. 

"Lie down," he instructed softly. "Just rest." 

He pulled gently and she came over, going limp. She looked and felt  
small, her nightgown pressed to her body with sweat. 

"Get me a blanket," Hosteen said to Granger as Granger knelt next to  
Scully, his hand on her forehead, her shoulder, her side. Bo stopped  
a foot away, advanced a step, retreated, advanced and retreated  
again. Finally he sat, whined. 

Victor came back in, panting, blood smeared across his pants. Robin  
and Sarah had come forward, Robin fetching a blanket draped near the  
saddles. Red and black and covered with dust. She handed it to  
Granger, still beside Scully. He laid it across her body.   
Hosteen noticed she was trembling so hard now her teeth were  
chattering. 

Her only movement was her chest rising and falling, her eyes closed  
now, her fists against her face. 

"Whish-te..." Hosteen murmured to her. "Over. It is over now."

Scully said nothing. Her face looked white in the sunlight. 

Granger stroked her forehead, his hand finally cupping the wet hair at  
the crown of her skull.

Albert turned to Victor and Sarah, Victor drenched in blood. 

"Call for help," he said softly in Navajo. "And hurry." 

 

*****

(Something warm against her face, warm as a hand. 

Trickle of something salt and the taste of iron over her lips. Light  
was pressing in through two slits at her feet and she was moving, a  
sound like screaming. Electric voices speaking and everything hollow  
and distant as noises underwater.

The air she breathed was cold, too rich. She drank it in like water.

Mulder ...

The name came out on a puff of mist, everything going dark and  
silent.

A strobe of lights, square on square of brightness, hands moving her.  
The stark silver of an overhead lamp looking down on her like an eye.  
She felt cold air on her belly, a prick in her arm.

Then:

"Dana."

She could see him. He looked ancient, wrapped in a black overcoat, a  
bowtie at his throat. His elbows were propped on the arms of his  
silver wheelchair, a blanket across his legs.

"Dana. Come with me."

She stared up into the light's eye. Something was pressing into her  
belly, pressing into her ...

"Where?" she breathed, unblinking. "Tell me ..."

calm down dana calm down now breathe

"Heliwell," the man said, and his mouth formed a warm smile. "The  
cliffs at Heliwell. A dark house with stained glass windows. Do you  
see?"

She saw it, though she didn't know how. She felt bile in her mouth,  
bitter and burning. She wanted to be there. Now.

"Help me ..." she said, her eyes lolling.

we're helping you just calm down try to stay calm

"I'm waiting, Dana," the man said, still smiling. 

She pulled in a frozen breath. Everything changed to black.)

**

ST. FRANCIS REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER  
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 5  
8:02 a.m.

"You must tell him."

Albert Hosteen's face was grim as he said the four words he and the  
three others in the room had been dancing around since they'd  
arrived. Despite the things they'd said - Mae's insistence that  
Mulder would be closely watched, and his abrupt departure would   
arouse suspicion, Granger's quiet compromise that they wait to find  
out what the doctors said - he knew they were the right words to  
say.

"Mr. Hosteen," Mae snapped, crossing her arms across her chest, her  
face looking pale over the black turtleneck tucked against her chin.  
"With all due respect, you have no idea where Mulder is or the people  
he's dealing with."

"Hmm," Hosteen agreed, and disagreed. "That is not my worry. And it  
would not be Mulder's either, if he knew what was happening here."

"We don't know if Scully or the baby is in danger," Granger offered,  
but Hosteen could tell the rebuttal was half-hearted. His eyes still  
had shock in them. It was as stark as the small dots of sheep's blood  
on this dark face.

"That's not what he's talking about," Robin said, turning and going  
toward a window, looking out on dark clouds that had brought more  
light rain. "And you know it, Paul. You were there. You saw what she  
did. What she can do."

Hosteen looked at Robin's back, the trail of braids she'd tucked into  
a ponytail against her back by tying one of them around the rest. She  
wore silver earrings set with a blood red stone, and her gaze looked  
bewildered and tired and more than a little afraid. 

Hosteen admired the straight set of her back, though, the determined  
set of her face. He admired that she had clearly never seen anything  
like what she had seen in the barn but accepted it just the same.

"He's right," she said to the rain. "You have to contact him. He would  
want you to tell him." 

Hosteen looked at Mae, who had gone silent. Her eyes flicked onto him,  
her mouth a thin line. But he knew she couldn't argue with Robin's  
words about Mulder. 

"Then use the computer," she said quietly to Granger. "Don't have  
anyone in Washington call him. Every place he's going will be tapped.  
And Mr. Skinner's, too. The computer is the only way to be sure he's  
the only one listening."

Hosteen considered this, remembering Scully on the porch after she'd  
last written Mulder, the look on her face. Something lost. 

He remembered the pictures of the aftermath of the explosion outside  
the hotel in Washington he'd first seen, watching her make-believe  
funeral. The same look on Mulder's face.

"All right," Granger said, nodding, his hands going into his pockets.  
"I'll write him."

"How do you know where to send it to?" Mae said.

"I'll find a way," Granger replied softly.

A doctor came out of the ER's double doors, a man in his early 30s  
from the looks of him that Hosteen recognized. Ena Kitman's eldest  
son, Thomas. He had cut his hair since he'd gone away to medical  
school in Arizona and finally grown into his glasses.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, and angled his head in a sign of respect. 

"Thomas," Hosteen replied, and returned the gesture. "You have been  
working with my friend?"

They had told the admitting staff there were to be no names on the  
records. Granger had shown his badge to ensure both that and the  
presence of two vigilant if soft looking guards at the doors to the  
back. 

"Yes," Thomas replied as the other three gathered around them. He  
lowered his voice. "She was very shocky when you brought her in, but  
she's out of danger now. We've stabilized her."

"Is the baby all right?" Mae asked, jumping in the moment he took a  
breath.

"The baby was showing signs of distress when she got here, but she's  
showing signs of improvement. We are seeing some spotting, though,  
which concerns us. The OB on call is looking at her now. She just got  
in." 

"She's had spotting before," Robin said. "Do they know that? Has she  
told you?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, she hasn't. I've had to give her a good  
bit of sedation to calm her down. She was pretty ...upset ...when she  
got here and was getting herself more and more agitated. I thought it  
best to sedate her once the baby had stabilized a bit." He   
shook his head, looking hard at Hosteen. 

"The blood on her -- where did that come from? Was someone trying to  
hurt her? What caused all this? "

Hosteen looked at Thomas and their gazes hung for a long moment. None  
of the others spoke. 

"Nothing I can say," Hosteen said in Navajo. He said with finality,  
and Thomas heard it.

The young doctor nodded. "Well," he said, looking at the others'  
concerned faces. "As I say, we've stabilized her, but we'd like to  
keep her for a day or so. Just to be sure everything's all right. You  
all might as well go on back the Hills - I've made sure she   
sleeps for a long while. Probably until tomorrow morning. I'll stay  
here all day today to be sure she's out of any danger." 

Granger and Robin began gathering their jackets, Mae following suit.  
Hosteen watched them. 

"Thank you, Thomas," Hosteen said softly, and he allowed a small  
smile.

Thomas angled his head, wished Hosteen his respect in quiet Navajo as  
a white nurse passed them by.

"If you would ..." Thomas said quietly, continuing in their private  
language, "please tell Victor I will be there." 

Hosteen glanced at Granger, who was slowly shouldering into his denim  
jacket, his face gone more pale. 

"You have my thanks," he said in English, now angling his head at the  
young man, as well. 

 

*****

BALLYCASTLE  
NORTHERN COAST OF NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
APRIL 5  
7:39 a.m.

 

The rain persisted, Mulder on his back in one of Neill's sweaters, the  
blue heavy cotton pushed up to his chest and his belly exposed in an  
attempt to cool himself off. The inn they were staying in - a small  
B&B with only five rooms - was heated with radiators, their metal  
bodies grumbling like empty stomachs and hissing as the rain had moved  
in off the sea, chilling everything. The sweater had felt fine until  
then. Now he was boiling hot. 

He and Skinner were sharing a room since two of the inn's rooms were  
taken up with a family of Swiss tourists, necessitating a double-up.  
Mulder had, in fact, spent much of the previous day in the inn, as  
Neill had said he wanted to go out into the town alone for the   
day to find this mysterious man they sought. Renahan drew too much  
attention for his manners and his accent and his face, and he and  
Skinner could hardly blend in as residents themselves. The town was  
small enough that everyone would know every new face. 

Skinner, seeming impatient with the day's delay in their work toward  
God Only Knew What, had hired a boat for fishing for the day, needing  
something to do with his hands, he'd said.

"You fish?" Mulder had quipped over the breakfast table, the Swiss  
family long-gone on a ferryboat to one of the lighthouses. They'd  
been polite and a bit too happy about everything. 

"Of course I fish," Skinner growled in response, dipping into the clod  
of oatmeal that weighed more than the bowl it was in. Mulder had the  
same in front of him, and it was warm and rich and delicious. The way  
he said it made Mulder chuff.

"It's just hard to picture," he said. 

"All right, goddamnit, I don't fish," Skinner relented, his voice more  
sour. Their usual banter. "But I've hunted and it's got to be less  
boring than that."

"Don't count on it," Renahan said as he'd settled into the chair at  
the end of the table, waving at the innkeeper's wife as though she  
were a maid. "And I hope you've still got some sea legs there, Mr.  
Semper Fucking Fi or you'll be feeding more fish than you   
catch." 

Skinner ignored him. "You want to join me?" he asked, flicking his  
eyes on Renahan, as though reminding him of the alternative. 

"No," Mulder said, finishing off his tea. Real cream. Sugar lumps. He  
started to say something else, what he'd be doing, but he had no  
idea. "No," he said again. "Thanks." And he'd retreated upstairs.

He'd found a book on the shelves in the room and spent the day reading  
it, some history book on the Second World War. He'd lingered on a  
chapter on the Battle of Bulge, listening to the rolling of a storm  
brewing and staring at the same page for an hour before   
ending up sleeping much of the afternoon away. He'd been thinking  
about Scully while looking at the pictures of bar-like trees and  
snow, and he dreamed a troubling dream where he'd been reaching  
through them toward her in the clearing, her hair red as blood   
or fire. 

He'd stayed in the room so long, and been so silent, the innkeeper's  
wife had come to see if he was feeling all right. 

A shared dinner with Skinner and Neill - Renahan had stayed in to  
watch soccer on his room's small TV - and he'd returned to bed,  
listening to Skinner toss in the narrow twin bed across the room and  
bitch about the rainstorm buffeting the inn's sides and it being   
too cold to sleep.

Not too cold now, Mulder said, pushing the sweater up a bit more so  
that his chest was bare now. He'd kicked the heavy quilt off, too,  
his sweatpants feeling woolen on him. Sighing, he exhaled and stood,  
going to the window that overlooked the bay. He'd spent a   
good deal of time at it the day before, looking out at the waves. 

A couple of bangs on the old frame and the window shifted open  
halfway. It was large window, and the gust into the opening was cool  
and salt. He heard the wind as he felt it. 

He heard ...

Singing?

"Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies ..." 

Renahan's voice, seeming to come from the air. They were a full story  
up but Renahan was close.

Mulder had noticed a railing before but thought it decoration. Now,  
leaning out the window, his face touched with cold rain, he realized  
it guarded a small wooden ledge around the inn's second story, only  
wide enough for one person to walk along, if that.

And outside his window, his back against the inn's white, was Renahan,  
wearing black cords and the vaguely dirty thermal long-sleeved shirt  
he'd had on beneath his sweater and jacket. He'd been out for awhile,  
because he was soaking wet. His hair hung around his face, his beard  
for once tamed against his face.

"Farewell and adieu you ladies of Spain ..." His voice rose  
dramatically on the last word. "For we've received word to sail out  
from ...somewhere ...yeah, Boston! ...and never more will we see you  
again ..."

He turned, noticing Mulder's head sticking out of the window now, a  
wry smile on his face. "You know that movie, Mr. Mulder?" 

Mulder looked at him, wondering if he had a bottle tucked against his  
hip, unseen, on his other side. He almost always did, and his  
behavior seemed to indicate being slightly out of his mind. The rain  
was freezing. 

"'Jaws'?" he asked. Someone was walking by with a dog, a man wearing a  
fishing cap and an overcoat, along the small lawn behind the house.  
He looked up at them, shook his head, mumbled something and was on  
his way again.

Renahan barked a laugh. "I knew if anyone would know the thing it  
would be you," he said, sounding satisfied, as though he's won a bet  
with himself. "Yeah, that's the one. Fucking Quint and his quest for  
his very own white whale."

Mulder couldn't help but smile, though it pained him a bit. He and  
Scully and Big Blue, five feet from the shore in the darkness and him  
talking about hell being an undigested apple dumpling ...

"Everyone's got their own giant white whale, eh, Mr. Mulder?" Renahan  
said softly. 

"This isn't a white whale we're looking for, Renahan," Mulder said. He  
wished the man would come inside. He was shivering, and he was  
getting wet. 

"Aye, that's the truth," Renahan said, looking out over the sea. "It's  
a big fucking shark with great giant teeth." He looked at Mulder, his  
face deadly serious. 

"'You're gonna need a bigger boat,'" he said.

Mulder didn't know if he should laugh or not. It was funny, the  
movie's famous quote, but in a way it wasn't. Not how he said it. Not  
one bit. 

Their gazes hung for a long beat, and something passed between them,  
lodging in Mulder's throat.

Seeing this, Renahan grinned. "Don't be a poof, Mulder!" he exclaimed,  
his eyes losing their grim tinge. "Come out and enjoy the weather and  
the view!" 

Mulder looked at him, unable to shake the look Renahan had worn  
before. A bigger boat ...

It was enough to get him out the window and onto the ledge in his bare  
feet. He wedged them against the bottom of the rail as he settled in  
next to Renahan, rain dotting his face.

"Look us out here now, Captain Ahab and Mr. Quint out on the bridge,"  
Renahan said, that same grin on this face. 

Mulder wiped his face with the back of his hand. "My wife once called  
me that," he said. "Ahab, not Quint."

"Smart woman," Renahan smiled. "Up to the moment she married you  
knowing that." 

Mulder laughed. "Well, by then it wasn't true anymore." 

"Gave up on that sister of yours, did you now?" 

Mulder's head snapped over to face the other man, but Renahan was  
looking straight ahead, a small smile on his face.

"What do you know about that?" Mulder said. He managed to keep any  
inflection out of his voice, though it was an effort to sound as  
neutral as he did. Something in him had startled, though, as though  
caught in some act.

Renahan gave a mirthless laugh. "I was one of the top investigators at  
Scotland Yard, Mr. Mulder," he said. "And I've been watching you for  
a long time. Back when your wife got mixed up with the Currans,  
though she was ...*just* ...your partner then." He waggled an   
eyebrow for effect. "I wanted to see what Owen had coming his way."

Something about it made Mulder angry, like he'd come home to find  
Renahan sitting on the couch. He could feel the muscles in his jaw  
tighten.

"Aye, I know all about you, Fox William Mulder, son of William Mulder  
who was mixed up in shite no one understands or gives a fuck about  
anymore, even you. I know all about a little girl carried off by  
flying monkeys or that little gray peanut-butter-eating bastard   
who walked on his dick." 

Mulder wiped the now-wet hair from his forehead. "You don't know what  
you're talking about," he said. 

"All right," Renahan relented. "Maybe he didn't walk on his dick." He  
bumped his elbow into Mulder's upper arm, too hard, giggling.

"Laugh it up," he said, and he was angry now. Defensive and angry. 

Renahan's laughter subsided as he squeezed rain from his ragged beard.  
"Eh, maybe ou're right ...you're right ...maybe you're not Ahab  
anymore. Maybe you gave up on your whale for a place in the country  
and changing nappies ..."

"Maybe I did," Mulder said, looking out onto the ocean. The rain was  
picking up, the wind pushing against his sweater so that it touched  
his skin like ice. 

He pushed himself to his feet, squared his shoulders. Then he looked  
at Renahan, his expression grim. 

"Maybe you should give yours up, too, Mr. Quint."

Renahan looked up at him, his face pale in the morning light. "Some  
things are worth giving your life for, Mr. Mulder," he said.

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "And some things aren't."

Renahan looked out over the ocean. He said nothing.

"I'm going down for breakfast," Mulder said finally. "Come join me  
when you've finished with your ...view." 

He turned and walked inside.

 

*****

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 5   
10:01 a.m.

 

The Hotmail account hadn't been opened so long Granger'd discovered it  
was about to be deleted. Tucked in among the Viagra and Oxycontin,  
right near the bottom above Ukranian women with unnaturally close  
relationships with livestock or their fathers, and above two emails  
promising to make his penis larger overnight was the email he'd been   
looking for, its return email address blank as he opened it, the small  
window glimmering in the Farmington Community Library's main room.  
Four ancient computers. No waiting. 

The email had consisted of one line: an email address. Robin over his  
shoulder to surreptitiously shield the screen from the four other  
people in there as the library had opened, Granger wasted no time  
copying the address into a new window and tapping out the message he  
and Robin had decided on in the car on the way:

M.,

You've got a sick friend. I know you're busy, but if you can, find  
your way home.

G.

He hit "send" without even re-reading it and closed the account down  
once again, this time for good. The Gunmen had sent the address to  
him the day he'd left for New Mexico.

"In case something happens," Byers had said hesitantly, unwilling to  
be more detailed than that. 

And something, Granger thought, lying on his back with Robin curled  
against his good shoulder, had definitely happened.

Though he would be hard pressed to say what. 

As though reading his thoughts, Robin spoke quietly against his shirt.  
"What's happening to her, Paul?" 

He was quiet for a long moment, stroking the braids trailing on his  
shoulder. She smelled like spice and he breathed her in, a deep  
breath that gave him pain.

"I don't know," he said. "But it's been coming for a long time  
whatever it is." 

She shook her head, burying her face against his chest. "What I saw  
..." she whispered, trailed off. He knew she had something more to  
say but wouldn't say it. 

He looked up at the ceiling, hearing vehicles coming down the road.  
The men were late this morning. The ranch had been quiet, no calls to  
horses, no dust of men and animals working. Only the lingering smoke  
of the sheep's carcasses, the horse, that Victor's brother Keel had  
burned in the desert behind the house.

"You don't believe it," he finished for her. He was cold, as he often  
was when he was lying down. He was glad to have left his boots on in  
the bed. 

She shook her head again. "No," she replied. "You can't see that and  
not believe. You can't deny what you see right in front of your  
eyes." 

Someone was coming in the house, cars still coming in to park around  
the house. Footsteps coming down the hallway.

She leaned up enough to look into his face, something in her eyes  
afraid. 

"But I don't want to," she whispered. "I don't want to believe." 

There was small tap on the door, and Granger nodded to Robin, soothing  
her with a hand on her back, and called for whomever it was to come  
in. 

Victor stood there, Sarah with him. She was wearing a broad-brimmed  
ranch hand's cowboy hat that looked like a horse had been dragging it  
around. She did not smile, and Victor didn't either.

"No work today, Victor," Granger said softly. He'd said it the morning  
before, too, and Victor had left him alone. 

"No, none today," Victor agreed. "But I want you to come outside." 

Robin looked up, and Granger took in the gravity of Victor's  
expression. The man was usually amiable and light in a way that  
Granger frankly envied. But not today. Likewise, Whistler looked grim  
herself. Not quite grim, but ...serious in a way he hadn't seen. As   
though someone had died or was about to.

"Is it Scully?" he asked immediately, he and Robin sitting up. 

Victor shook his head. "Outside," he said again, and for an instant he  
looked and sounded like his grandfather when things were dire. 

Robin looked at him uncertainly, but Granger put a hand on her arm. 

"It's okay," he said softly. He trusted Victor implicitly, though he'd  
never seen him act this way. Maybe the events of the morning had  
taken some toll on him Granger didn't know. Maybe Victor had had  
enough of these people in his ranch and the trouble they   
brought him. Maybe the death of the livestock at Scully's hands had  
been enough.

He swallowed at the prospect of being put off the ranch. He didn't  
know where he would take Scully if this were the case, where she  
would be safe. 

The Hosteen's had done enough, he thought, and nodded to Victor, and  
followed him out. Robin went behind him and said nothing. 

Down the narrow hallway to the living room, he could see through the  
windows to the front that the area around the house was crowded with  
pickups. The men hadn't parked in front of the barn as they usually  
did, but in front of the house. He could see a few of them   
standing in a semicircle, their hands in their pockets, none of them  
speaking. The sun beat down on them making everything too bright. 

Granger opened the door, pushed open the screen, and stepped out into  
the light.

They were all there, every man he'd seen on the ranch and many he  
hadn't. Thirty or forty total, all Navajo. They were all silent,  
their faces as heavy as Victor's had been in the bedroom. 

Robin stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. He could hear  
her breathing in the quiet as Victor came out with Sarah and took up  
a place in front of him. He raised his chin and looked Granger hard  
in the face.

Granger stood his ground, looking from face to face. He didn't know  
what this all meant. He was afraid of their silence, these men who  
had been so jovial, who loved to laugh and had let him join in what  
they had with each other. He hadn't understood how they could   
be so welcoming to an outsider, but he understood this change in them  
even less. 

"What is it you want from me?" he asked finally, no challenge in his  
voice. Whatever they asked, he would give it if he could. Victor  
would surely know that by now.

"Your trust," Victor said. He ventured a glimpse of a smile that the  
men couldn't see. 

Granger nodded, looking around. "All right," he said. 

Victor's smile vanished. "And your belief." 

Granger met his gaze, the word hanging in the air between them.  
"They're the same thing," he said finally, and Victor nodded. 

"We'll see," he said, and called out something in Navajo, the men  
returning to their trucks, engines firing to life. 

Victor gestured to his pickup and Granger started forward, Robin  
following. 

"Stay," Sarah barked to Robin, clearly an order, and Robin stopped,  
pinned by Whistler's outstretched finger. 

"Paul--" she began, grabbing his arm. He stopped, as well. 

"Robin," Granger said, turning to her and taking her hand. "It's all  
right. Stay here in case Scully needs you, in case Mulder contacts  
us. I'll be all right." 

She looked doubtful, tears welling in her dark eyes. Granger cupped  
her cheek in his hand and she embraced him, her fingers curling into  
his back as though she were afraid he'd be torn away. 

"I'll be all right," he whispered into her neck, then pulled back  
enough to kiss her, his mouth memorizing the feel and taste of hers.

He could still feel her arms around him as he climbed into the truck.  
He could still taste the tears he'd kissed from her face as the truck  
pulled away.

 

*****

 

19 CATHERINE STREET  
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX   
NEW YORK, NEW YORK  
APRIL 5  
11:40 a.m.

Conail Rutherford's mother was still wearing black, and like a good  
son, Rutherford wore a black armband, as well, a picture of his  
father, Samuel, looking stern from a silver frame where his supper  
plate would be. 

Rutherford, his mother Gracie and Christie ate their Friday lunch of  
tuna fish on Wonder in near-silence among them, a radio broadcast of  
Big Band love songs lilting from the kitchen, which smelled like  
something had been frying in it since 1945. 

Christie had long ago finished his sandwich and was staring at  
Bridget, who was sitting in Samuel's chair, her finger tracing over  
the top of the silver frame. Conail and his mother didn't seem to  
mind, and he was glad for that. Her eyes were still the strange blue  
from the plane, her pupils gone. She seemed very pale beneath her red  
hair and her mouth looked like a slash.

He preferred the closed mouth to the smile she'd had when he'd logged  
onto Mulder's computer before lunch and found the email from this  
person called "G." Christie had hurriedly forwarded the mail to  
Pierce for tracking, and shut down the machine, hiding it   
from Bridget in his suitcase before she began her jarring, eerie  
laugh. 

It was only a matter of time now. And not much of it. Find "G" and  
Christie would have a way to find Scully, even if the person wasn't  
with her. Things were urgent enough now that Christie would find what  
he wanted from the sender of the mail. 

"You ready to go then?" Conail asked, interrupting Christie's  
thoughts. Conail spoke barely loud enough to hear, the manners of an  
old-fashioned table. Gracie didn't look up, her eyes on her plate and  
her mouth barely moving as it chewed.

"Aye," Christie said, putting his napkin on his empty plate. He had  
that strange slow feeling of jetlag, his eyes feeling sandbagged. He  
wiped his face with his hand and Conail turned to his mother.

"Leaving the table, Mum," he said, and his chair raked against the old  
wood floor as he stood. Christie followed suit.

"All right then," she replied. "Where you two off to?" She still  
didn't look up, and Christie wondered for a moment if she even knew  
her son wasn't 14 and going off to play in the streets.

"We've got a bit of work," Conail said. "Won't be long. An hour or  
so."

"All right then," she said again, lifting up her sandwich for another  
bite, her eyes on her plate.

"Come on," Rutherford said to him, and they headed for the front door,  
their jackets hanging on a rack beside it. 

"Taking Dad being gone a bit hard," Rutherford said, almost as  
apology, and Christie nodded. "She'll come around in a bit, I  
think."

"Aye," Christie said, not believing it. He turned to see Bridget  
standing there and wanted to tell her to go back and talk to Gracie  
Rutherford, though he didn't know what she might say. 

"Let's go. They'll be waiting." And Rutherford headed out the door,  
Christie and Bridget following him out into the New York City  
street.

Though the sun was out in the too-bright clear of early spring, it was  
still cold, colder than Ireland had been, in fact. This disappointed  
Christie, since he'd been hoping for some warmth. For some reason,  
when he thought of the States he always imagined it warm, but that  
was likely from watching films of the American West. He pushed his  
chin a bit lower into his jacket, his still-short crewcut making him  
wish for a hat.

"Aye, it's still bloody cold," Rutherford said as they wove down the  
street, yellow cabs streaming by as they passed a schoolyard,  
children in Catholic uniforms at play on the blacktop inside the  
fence. "You'd think this close to Easter we'd get a bit of relief.  
It's not far, though. St. Matthew's. A few blocks up."

"No trouble," Christie said, glancing over his shoulder and noting  
that Bridget was still there, a few steps behind them. She was  
smiling a strange smile that unnerved him, and he realized, for the  
first time, that he wished they'd lost her on the street.

"Something wrong?" Rutherford asked, his voice fast and a little  
urgent. He stopped and Christie stopped with him, Conail shooting a  
look over his shoulder, as well.

"No, no," Christie said quickly. "Nothing at all. Just looking around  
a bit." 

Rutherford seemed unconvinced, and Christie forced a smile. "I don't  
get out country much and like to look at what I can see," he added,  
though it sounded weak, even to his ears. The children's voices  
sounded vaguely like screams. He wanted to move on. He   
nodded down the direction they'd been going to let Conail know that.

"Ah," the other man said, a puzzled expression on his face, and they  
walked on. 

"I hear you just got out of the Army," Conail said after a few steps.

Christie nodded. "Been awhile back, but aye."

"Special Forces and all that?"

Christie nodded again. "Aye. Since I was of age." He was glad to have  
the school out of earshot. A car backfired as it started on the  
street, and he welcomed the sound.

"Do you miss it?" Rutherford asked. His voice sounded strange,  
something hesitant and quieter in it.

"Army?" he replied, just to be sure that's what he meant.

"Yea," Conail said, sinking his hands into his pockets. "That  
whole...life."

Christie heard the question beneath the question. He knew the tired  
look on Conail's face. He'd been seeing it in the mirror since he'd  
returned from the Rangers, though he'd tried to keep it away.

"Aye," he said, speaking softly now. 

"I would miss it," Rutherford said. "Something that...clear, if you  
take my meaning. Out in the open and...in the right."

It was a huge risk to say it and Christie knew it. He wondered with  
some part of his mind if he should answer, if his grandmother had  
told Rutherford to say it to see what Christie would say in response.  
His botching of the job so far might drive her to it in a search for   
an explanation for his mistakes.

The tears welling in Rutherford's eyes told him otherwise.

"We're in the right," he offered, more to make Rutherford feel better  
than because he believed it was so. Behind him, he could hear Bridget  
laugh.

Rutherford shook his head. "I used to believe that," he said. "When my  
Dad was alive, I tried to believe it because he did, you know. I  
believed it when Shea got here from Antrim to go after Owen Curran  
even. Every time I'd pick up a package from Belfast with   
a piece of that rifle of his I believed it. When I handed it to him  
before he left to go after Curran, I believed it. I never stopped."

His pale face was going red, as though his cheeks had been smeared  
with rouge. He wiped at the tears on his face. 

"But this sickens me," he said. "I'm sorry. I know you're doing it and  
I mean nothing against you for the job you've picked, but it makes me  
sick." 

Christie looked down at the sidewalk, sniffed. "Didn't pick it," he  
said, still nearly whispering. "It's not mine."

"None of us picked this, did we?" Rutherford said, frustration seeping  
from his voice. "Not the ones our age. When they signed in '98, I  
didn't know they didn't sign for you and me." 

"They signed for the country's peace," Christie said. "And you can  
make a country change the way they do things, I reckon. Heal some  
things. But you can't change the what's in people's hearts."

"Aye," Conail replied. "That's so." 

Christie saw a church before them, gothic and dark. "Some things can't  
be healed like that."

Conail stopped. "Would you walk away from it?" he asked, pinning  
Christie with his eyes. "Would you ever just throw it off and take  
back your life and walk away?" His eyes were bright, touched with  
something. Desperation, or hope.

Christie looked at him, his gaze settling on Conail's arm, a smile  
curling on his face. "Would you take that band off your arm before  
the proper time to put it up?" he asked. "Or move your father's  
picture from his dinner plate?"

Conail looked down at his arm, his expression falling. "No," he said,  
touching the band's soft black. "I suppose not. My family...Ireland..  
.it's all I am."

Christie reached out and touched the band. "The Ireland we live in -  
the one our families live in that has nothing to with the earth our  
houses are built on or the grass or the sea around it -- is lost,  
Conail," he said quietly. "And because we're there with them in that   
place, you and I...we're lost, as well. Two lost men from a lost  
land."

Conail looked at him and a beat of silence passed between them.  
Bridget stood behind Christie. He could feel her icy hand on his  
shoulder.

"Come on," Christie said finally. "They're waiting on me. We need to  
get me my things." 

 

****

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
12:08 p.m.

 

Albert Hosteen took the dirt road from his house to Victor's on  
Ghost's back, riding without a saddle and with only a bridle and two  
thin ropes attached to steer the gray horse as he rode. Ghost hadn't  
needed a bridle for years, especially not with Hosteen, who had   
been able to tell the horse what needed it to do since the horse was a  
yearling. 

As Hosteen went down the road, he tried not to look at the evidence of  
Agent Scully's desperate walk to the barn. He tried not to think  
about the body of the horse, Scully in her blood-stained gown in the  
middle of the circle of light. 

Still, when he happened on an upset area in the tire tracks where he  
could see the print of one of her hands, a small bare footprint  
beside it, he couldn't help but see it all again behind his eyes.

Something in his face went a bit harder. He could feel his eyes, the  
corners of his mouth, fall a bit. So many things had risen in Scully,  
taking over her and moving out, flocking out of her on their black,  
frightening wings.

Time for other things to rise, as well, he thought, looking up at the  
noon sky, traces of clouds moving high above.

He rode past Victor's house, as empty as he expected it to be, past  
the barn and its quiet, even the animals silent. Only a few chickens  
were milling around the outside, and they fussed away from him back  
toward the doorway as he passed. 

He heard a sound, laughter, from far off to his left, and followed it  
until he saw Mae Porter and Frank Music sitting at a makeshift table  
way off behind her house. Their backs were to him, but he could see  
Katherine standing on the tabletop, her hands in her mother's as she  
swayed. The baby was the one laughing, Music and Porter sitting so  
close together their shoulders were nearly touching. 

To his right he heard the screen door to Mae's back door open and  
shut. He turned his gaze to Sean, who'd come out in his too-big jeans  
and a white T-shirt, his hair catching on the breeze. 

The boy's eyes were on Mae and Music, his arms crossed over his chest.  
As Hosteen watched him, Sean didn't move or even blink.

"Hm," he said to himself, looking from the two adults and the baby to  
the boy and back again.

Yes, he decided. Tonight he would see things rise. Up and out. He  
would see them for what - and who -- they were.

He guided Ghost toward the house.

Sean didn't take his eyes off Mae and Frank as Hosteen stopped Ghost a  
few feet from him. Hosteen could see that Sean's face was growing  
red.

"We go into the desert tonight for your final trial," Hosteen said  
with requisite gravity. "Tonight, you will become an Eagle. Tonight  
you meet the one who will take your suffering away."

At that, Sean's face snapped toward him, his eyes showing the question  
that he would not allow himself to ask.

"Yes," Hosteen said with gravity. "He has been waiting for you in the  
desert since you came here. He knows all that you have been through  
and..." He glanced at Mae and Frank as Katherine laughed, "...and  
what troubles you now. It is time for you to meet."

Sean dropped his arms to his sides, his fists clenching and  
unclenching.

"Gather your things for a night in the desert, " Hosteen said. "I will  
prepare war paint and magical things. We will ride out from my house  
to the place where this man lives and waits for you."

Sean nodded, Mae and Frank and Katherine forgotten. Hosteen could see  
the excitement - and the desperation - on the boy's face. 

"Tell no one where you are going," Hosteen said. "We leave at dusk." 

And with that, he tapped Ghost with his right heel to turn him back  
toward the barn and the road to the house. 

 

*****

THE RUE INN  
BALLYCASTLE  
NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
6:03 p.m.

 

Walter Skinner had never been one for the cold, or for the ocean for  
that matter. Thus, the combination of the North Sea, the cloudless  
night and the wind coming off the water as night began to fall were  
not exactly to his liking. 

Something about the night, the cold and the sky so clear it seemed  
unreal made Skinner think of Cambodia, up around Song Tra Bong,  
though he would be loathe to admit that to anyone. The stars were  
different here, out of place for him, and he thought of the nights   
he'd spent in Vietnam lying outside beneath clear skies, how he'd  
learn to grow wary of starlight. Something about being able to open  
his eyes and look at the stars, close them again and then look again  
and him have not moved a muscle but the stars having changed   
their positions bothered him immensely. 

He didn't like to be reminded that his world was in constant motion,  
no matter how true the fact.

He jammed his hands into the pockets of the fisherman's coat he'd  
borrowed from the innkeeper, the collar flap catching a gust of wind.

Off to his left, the town of Ballycastle proper, not far in the  
distance, a few lights on as night eased in over the ocean. Somewhere  
past it, he knew, was this man Neill had said would have their  
answers, ones that he wanted. 

But before him, there on the side of the cliff, were other answers he  
wanted, as well.

He could see Mulder's outline in the moonlight, as though he were not  
the man Skinner had known all this time but rather the shadow of him,  
left there overlooking the sea. He'd seen Mulder from the window of  
the room they shared, waited for him to come in as night came, and  
when Mulder didn't, Skinner went out to him instead.

He pushed his collar up against his throat and started toward Mulder,  
who was standing stone-still out there on the edge.

Given the sound of waves crashing against the jagged coastline down  
below, he figured Mulder didn't hear him there, since the younger man  
didn't move as he approached him.   
He was wrong.

"What is it." 

It didn't even sound like Mulder's voice. Even though what he'd said  
was a question, it didn't sound like one. It was flat as a field, and  
it made Skinner slightly uncomfortable and more concerned.

"Nothing," he said, trying his best for his usual gruff. "Just  
wondered what you were doing out here, freezing your ass off. You  
should come in."

Mulder didn't turn, didn't move. The moon was rising, and it and the  
lingering dusk were enough so that Skinner could see Mulder's outline  
a bit more clearly. Like him, he'd turned the collar of his borrowed  
peacoat up against his chin.

"Mulder?" He spoke into the silence. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he said. "I guess I was just thinking about something." He  
was trying to come back from wherever he'd been, and his voice was  
forced and only vaguely normal. He tried to laugh.

Skinner only nodded, and they dissolved into a silence, both of them  
listening to the waves.

"We're close now," Skinner said finally, nodding toward the few lights  
of the town, miles away. 

Mulder nodded. "I know," he said. "I just hope...I hope Neill is right  
about this man."

"He is," Skinner said, and he actually was sure. "I don't know a lot  
these days, Mulder," he continued, "But I do know that I believe  
Neill and what he's said he knows."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah," he said noncommittedly. 

"I mean, hell, even Renahan seems to believe him, and Renahan doesn't  
believe much of anything anymore." He grunted, an attempt at a  
sardonic laugh. Mulder's lip quirked as he seemed to appreciate  
Skinner's effort.

A ship's horn sounded far off in the distance, and both men's eyes  
were drawn to the lights on the ship far off shore. It was moving  
slowly, moving away, and the sight of it made Skinner somehow sad. He  
returned his gaze to Mulder, though Mulder was still looking away. 

Finally, he came up to stand beside him, their shoulders close.

"What really got you out here anyway?" he asked. "Scully?"

Mulder shook his head, the wind catching the collar of his coat again.  
"No," he said. "Samantha."

Skinner looked at him in surprise. "There's a name I haven't heard in  
awhile," he replied. "What the hell got you thinking about her all  
the way out here in the middle of all this?"

"Because I hadn't heard the name in a long time myself until today,"  
Mulder replied. He nodded toward Ballycastle. "And in the middle of  
this, I realized that I haven't really thought about Sam a whole lot  
in the past couple of years. And I was trying to decide   
why." 

Skinner shivered, nodded, considering himself.

"Things change," he said, as if to placate Mulder, who sounded a  
bit...guilty?...at the admission. "You've got a wife now. Baby on the  
way."

"Do you remember me when you met me?" Mulder asked quietly, a hint of  
incredulousness.

"I try not to think about that, Mulder," Skinner deadpanned, though he  
was only half- joking. Mulder chuffed.

"Yeah, I know. Single-minded nearly to a fault. A little selfish."

"'A little'?" 

"All right, a lot," Mulder amended. "Or I guess it appeared that  
way."

Skinner nodded. "I know a lot of it was because nobody took you  
seriously. That tends to make people bite other people on the ass." 

"That was a lot of it, yeah," Mulder agreed. "But I look back at  
myself now and I think that a lot of that was also that I was trying  
to keep from facing what I was starting to realize about Samantha,  
what happened to her."

"Which was what?" Skinner asked quietly. He didn't want to say it  
himself.

Mulder heaved in a breath. "That she's dead," he said. 

The word hung in the air for a long moment. Skinner said nothing, but  
something in him and his friendship with Mulder, an old knot,  
loosened. 

"It was easier to give my whole life to looking for her than to admit  
to myself that she was gone," Mulder said.

Skinner felt a smile tug at his lips and looked up at the stars.  
"Jesus," he said softly. "Do you know how many years I've been  
waiting for you to say that?" 

"About as long as I have," Mulder replied, chuffing. "It took coming  
here for me to be able to do it." 

"Why?"

Mulder drew in a breath, let it out. The ship was moving far off now  
and they both followed it with their eyes. 

"What these people do for their families and this Cause..." He paused.  
"There's something about their loyalty to it, their willingness to do  
anything to stay loyal to it, that feels familiar. They'll do  
anything for that, for that and a sense that they belong to   
something bigger than themselves. Anything. Including destroying  
themselves." 

Skinner nodded. "Like you. When I met you." 

He nodded. "Yes," he replied simply. 

Skinner considered this in the space of quiet that followed the word.  
They stood still, huddled together like two men on the deck of a  
ship, the waves moving below them.

"Are you saying that belonging to something larger than yourself  
stopped mattering?" Skinner asked, breaking the silence. "And that's  
what changed?   
Mulder shook his head. "No, it's not that. It's that I realized along  
the way that what I was looking for *was* that sense of belonging to  
something, and I thought Sam was the answer to that. And she  
wasn't."

Skinner nodded. "But Scully was."

He caught a bittersweet smile on the other man's face. 

"Yes," Mulder said softly. "And when I realized I'd found what I was  
looking for - not Sam but what Sam represented for me - it was easier  
to accept what I knew was true. I'd never find her. The best I could  
do was find the truth of what happened, and though that   
gives me closure, it doesn't give me what was missing."

Skinner nodded. "Makes sense," he said. He looked at Mulder now,  
facing him. "So you stop looking?" he asked. "Stop looking for the  
conspiracy and little green men?"

Mulder laughed. "No," he said. "I *start* looking for those things and  
not for a person who's not there. I start looking for what happened  
to her, but not at the expense of everything I have and everything I  
am." 

He paused. 

"The people here taught me that laying yourself on an altar for  
someone doesn't bring them back from the dead. It just puts you in  
the grave next to them, and while some might think that's noble...it  
simply compounds the grief and the waste." 

Skinner smiled, looked down. The knot unwound in him, straightened  
out. He cleared his throat. 

"It's cold as shit out here," he said.

"Yeah," Mulder said. "It is." He was smiling faintly. 

"Come on," Skinner said, turning his back on the ocean. "I'll buy you  
a drink."

 

***

"THE OLD BAKEHOUSE"  
4 MILLER ROAD  
BALLYCASTLE  
NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
8:32 p.m.

 

Ruby Belle had always been a beautiful woman, from the moment James  
had set eyes on her outside St. Jude's in Derry. It was Easter, 1947,  
and she wore flowers in her hair like a crown, and her eyes had been  
like jewels set into the porcelain of her face, jewels just   
like her name.

Her face, lit by the light over the stove as she washed up the heavy  
dishes, was lined now, but her eyes were just as bright. Jimmy smiled  
as he watched her, smiled through the pain the medicine couldn't hold  
away.

"Time for another dose, Jimmy?" she asked, not looking up. Her voice  
was quiet over the warm sound of water running into the sink. 

He was at the table, his medication gathered in a small group at the  
center of the table beneath the dim light above them.

"No," he said, keeping the pain from his voice. "Don't need one." 

He saw her smile. "Don't you lie to me, Jimmy Shea," she replied  
softly. "Take one, and I'll make you sorry you ever taught me to play  
backgammon."

"You're going to beat me again are you then, woman?" he asked. His  
white moustache framed the fond smile he gave her. 

"Of course," she said, putting a plate into the drainer and reaching  
for a dish towel to dry her worn, lovely hands.

A knock on the heavy, 200-year old door. 

"At this hour?" Ruby asked, looking at the clock on the wall. "Who  
would that be?"

Jimmy Shea looked at the clock, as well. 

Only one thing would bring people out this time of night. He'd had  
knocks like this hundreds of times, and he knew the meaning of the  
quiet sound.

"Don't know," he said, pushing himself to his feet slowly. "But you  
set up the board and I'll be back. And this time let me be white." 

He walked through the house and its darkness, only one light on in  
every room throwing its light up onto the dark-beamed ceiling. The  
house had been around so long it was known only by what it was when  
it was first built among this outpost of Ballycastle -   
"The Old Bakehouse." It would never change its name.

Before he opened the door, he took in a breath. He was tired. In more  
ways than he could name.

The man he knew as Seamus - still - stood in the porchlight. He  
removed his fishing cap before he spoke.

"Mr. Shea, you'll forgive the hour," he said softly. "But I wanted to  
let you know some news that might concern you, sir."

Shea nodded. "No trouble," he said. He did not invite Seamus in.

"The Americans you had some dealings with before...that man Fox  
Mulder, the Fibbie whose wife was mixed up in the Curran  
business...he's here in Ballycastle."

"Oh?" Shea said, his voice flat.

"Aye," Seamus continued. "He's got Neill with him. And Renahan.  
They're looking for the Collin's, I should think."

Shea nodded. "I should think." The same neutral tone.

Seamus nodded. "Just wanted you to know to stay away from town for a  
bit."

Shea nodded again. "Aye, I'll mind who's about." 

Seamus nodded again, Shea's flatness doing its work and stiff-arming  
him away. "I'll be on my way then," he said quietly, and replaced his  
hat, turning to leave.

"No trouble," Shea said again. "Thank you, Seamus." 

The other man nodded, then turned to face him again. "Oh, and Jimmy?"

Shea met his gaze. "Yes?"

"The wife - that woman Scully? She's alive. We found her today from an  
email someone sent to Mulder about her."

Shea felt his eyes open wider. He grew very still. "Alive?" 

"Aye," Seamus said. "She's in the States. Hiding out somewhere. Some  
place in New Mexico. Some little town called Farmington. Christie's  
on his way. So stay low for a bit longer and it'll be done with at  
last." 

Shea met his gaze. "Good," he said softly. "That's good. Thank you for  
the news." 

"No trouble," Seamus said, smiled, and disappeared into the darkness.

 

*****

 

ST. FRANCIS REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER  
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 5  
6:01 p.m.

 

Heliwell.

Scully kept running the word over and over in her mind as she lay in  
the hospital bed, holding onto the word like a rope, seeing the man  
in the wheelchair as though she were remembering a particularly fond  
and vivid dream. 

He'd told her where to find him, a dark house with stained glass  
windows at a place called Heliwell. She could still see the house  
when she closed her eyes, her lids lit from the overhead reading  
light in the small, private room, its window facing the lot filled  
with lamplight in the dusk and pickups from the Ford administration.

Looking at the house, at the trees surrounding it that looked like  
pines, the windows with some design she couldn't name or place, made  
the sound of her own heartbeat on the monitor easier to take, the  
sound of Rose's skitting along on its separate machine. She   
was wearing a nasal canula, as well, and the machine hissing when she  
breathed. 

Something had happened, though she couldn't remember what. She only  
remembered the nightmare and leaving the house. Everything else was  
washed in darkness, her memories packed in with cotton and grief.

She sighed, giving up again on remembering, turned her face back  
toward the window and watched cars milling. A woman got out with her  
child.

Heliwell... 

When Granger returned from the Hosteen's, she would ask him to find  
out how to find this house, this old man, and his promise of  
something that felt to her like peace. 

A soft tap on the heavy wooden door, and she turned, expecting to see  
Granger come through the doorway. 

Mae entered instead.

"Hey," she said softly. Her mouth felt dry, the holdover from some  
medication. Mae heard the dryness of her throat, her voice like  
paper, and reached for a pitcher of ice water on the bedside table,  
pouring it into a plastic cup.

"Hey," Mae replied, smiling faintly as she poured. "How are you? You  
all right?" 

Scully nodded, taking the cup. She was cold, the hospital gown gaping  
around her neck. "Yeah," she said, just above a whisper. "I'm all  
right." 

She took a sip, the water making her even colder. Mae pressed a button  
and lowered the railing on that side of the bed and sat on the edge,  
her hip touching Scully's leg. 

"The bleeding's stopped?" Mae sounded nervous, though Scully could not  
name why. Something more than her concern for her and baby. Something  
almost afraid.

Scully nodded. "It seems so," she replied. She handed Mae the cup, and  
the other woman placed it on the bedside table.

"You don't remember," Mae asked, not looking at her. "Do you?"

The words confirmed that something lay behind the Forget, that the  
gauzy haze that followed the memory of the morning air on her face  
after leaving the house occluded something she didn't want to  
remember. 

Looking at Mae's face, she was uncertain if she wanted to.

"I left the house," she replied, deflecting Mae, her gaze darting  
away. She put her hand on her belly, stroking the woven blanket with  
the palm of her hand. "I do remember that."

"What sent you out?" Mae asked. Her voice was gentle, but her face was  
still creased with concern.

The blood along the floor, mercurial, flashed in her mind, the feel of  
her daughter's face, her eyes clenching shut, beneath her palm. 

"Nothing," Scully said, pushing the memory away. "I had a bad dream.  
That's all it was."

Mae reached out and put a hand on hers, stilling its worrying of the  
fabric. Her fingers squeezed lightly. She shook her head.

"I know what you saw," Mae whispered, as though someone might hear  
them. "And it wasn't a dream. You knew it then, and you know it  
now."

Scully looked away, toward the window again, the moon high and far off  
in the distance and looking like a shred of nail. 

"It was a dream," she said again. She hated the tone of her voice,  
petulant and verging on desperation. She hated the tears welling in  
her eyes that said she knew she lied.

"Granger's contacted him," Mae said. "Told him to come." 

"No," Scully said, shaking her head. "I don't want him here. I don't  
want him to see this." A sob caught in her throat, the tears going  
down her face. "I don't want him to know--"

"Dana," Mae interrupted, squeezing her hand and leaning forward, her  
voice urgent. "You *need* him right now. No matter what you know or  
what you've seen."

"No," Scully said, turning away. She tried to pull her hand away but  
Mae held it tight. 

"For pity's sake, he's your husband," Mae said softly. "He's the  
father of your child. You're allowed to want him with you. You're  
allowed to need him." 

Her quiet tone allayed the accusation, softened it. 

"I want..." Scully trailed off. There was something she wanted to say  
but she lost it, the vision's images rising in her, too clear to be a  
dream, the sound of the gunshot too loud and too final, like a gavel  
falling or a door slammed shut. 

Mae leaned forward, her temple against Scully's, her hand gripping  
down. She made a long soft shushing noise, rocking against Scully's  
hip to rock her, soothing.

"I know," Mae whispered. "God help me, I do." 

The grief crested, and Scully closed her eyes against it, against  
Rose's screaming, against the image of Mulder's eyes catching the  
light as bright and as lifeless as glass. 

 

******

 

THE PUEBLO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
OUTSIDE TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
6:15 p.m.

 

They'd blindfolded him when they left the Hosteen's property, and for  
the first time since he'd come to Two Grey Hills, Paul Granger was  
afraid. 

"Cover your eyes with this," Victor had said from beside him. He held  
out a bandana, a worn blue one that Victor often kept in his back  
pocket. It was large enough to drape around the horses' faces as they  
moved them from corral to trailer for sale, and Granger   
took it, trying as best he could to shake the image of himself as one  
of the dark horses being tussled off down the dirt road of the  
reservation. 

Granger looked hard at Victor's face, his heart aching in his chest as  
it sped up a notch, faltering a bit. He could feel sweat beginning to  
glaze his face. 

"Victor?" he ventured, holding the bandana in one hand. 

Victor looked over at him, and he didn't smile. 

"You can't know where we're going, Granger," he said softly. "I need  
you to do as I say." 

Granger swallowed. They hadn't even passed Albert Hosteen's house and  
he already knew that "trust" and "belief" were not the same thing. 

He tied the bandana around his head, pulled a tight knot in the back,  
leaned against the seat, pushing out a breath.

"Just lean back and relax," Victor's voice floated to him. "We've got  
a bit of a trip. And it's going to get bumpy, so don't bother falling  
asleep."   
It was hours ago now that they'd arrived wherever they were. Granger  
could tell there was a fire where he was because even through the  
bandana's thick cloth he could see flickering light, and he could  
smell the wood as it burned, wood and something else that   
was vaguely like too-heavy incense mixed with grease. 

They'd helped him remove his shirt and shoes before he'd gone through  
a doorway, which he recognized as one by bumping into its frame. Bits  
of it had powdered off as he'd done so, two people gently righting  
him and guiding him through. The room he'd entered, his   
eyes growing darker, was cool and smelled of smoke mixed with dust and  
earth.

He'd seen just enough cowboy movies to expect drumming or the sound of  
dancing feet. He'd seen "Dances With Wolves" more times than he  
wanted to admit, and as he sat on the ground in his jeans, he was  
starting to get embarrassed at how he thought these people   
should act. 

Truth be known, he realized, he really understood their tribal ways  
very little. To think otherwise was prejudicial and arrogant,  
especially given that he's always been tacitly aware of himself as an  
Outsider among them, aware that their tribal identity was   
something he, even as a black man, could only partly understand.

They'd propped him up against what felt like a flat stone which acted  
like a chairback, and he'd listened to the sounds of men moving in  
and out for a long time, none of them speaking, no rattles or drums  
or high-pitched sounds. Just the sound of wood being stacked, that  
strange greasy, sweet smell. He'd dozed off, his chest aching, after  
an hour of their silence, lulled by the quiet and darkness before his  
eyes.

He was awake now, though, roused with a hand on his bare shoulder and  
a feeling that was a circle of men around him. He didn't know how he  
knew they were there, but he did.

"Granger," someone said to him. It was Keel, Victor's brother, a man  
as squat and thickly built as his father was tall and thin. He rarely  
spoke.

"Keel?" Granger said, feeling heavy, as though he'd been filled with  
sand. He felt like he'd been breathing smoke for too long.

"Yeah," Keel said, and someone else put a hand on his shoulder, then  
someone else. "Let's get you up. Things are prepared now. It's time  
to begin."

As he nodded, the men were lifting him up, his bare feet touching  
something that felt like cloth beneath them, but hard stones beneath.  
As he got his feet under him, he felt his legs go rubbery, his knees  
beginning to cave. Were in not for the men around him - who   
seemed to be expecting this development - he would have fallen to the  
ground.

"I'm all right," he said out of habit, but the hands stayed where they  
were. They began to guide him along the cloth path. He was moving  
away from the fire toward fresher air and what he knew to be cold  
night air. 

"Where are you taking me?" Granger said as they stepped outside. 

"Quiet." Victor's voice. "Everything will be clear to you in a few  
minutes." Victor took him now from two other men, Keel's hands still  
on him, as well. They hustled him forward.

His chest's ache was growing with his fear, feeling like he'd  
swallowed a fist. Sweat was cold on him, made colder by the night air  
on his bare chest. As they drew him forward he could feel an updraft,  
more wind, and sensed he was nearing some edge, wind free to   
move below him. 

They stopped. "Can you stand?" Victor asked. "Nod your head if you  
can." 

Granger felt his heartbeat falter again, his head growing light. He  
shook his head "no."

"All right," Victor said, then spoke quickly in Navajo. The other  
men's hands vanished and he heard them withdraw, their feet sound  
soft on the cloth-covered path. 

He and Victor stood alone. For a long moment he could hear only his  
breathing, the sound of his heart roaring in his ears, and the night  
wind.

Then, from beneath those noises, a strange sound. Something pitched  
high and animal- like, something beating the air. 

He wanted to ask what it was that was coming. He wanted to ask what  
would happen to him when it got there.

Victor's hands closed around him, the sound growing. A foul smell  
drifted in on the wind now, sharp and not unlike ammonia. Granger  
turned his face away.

"No," Victor said, grabbing him by the back of the neck and turning  
his face forward, toward the growing sound and the terrible smell. 

The high-pitched screaming grew louder, a racket of it, too loud and  
coming too fast.

"Trust," Victor said above the sound. 

Granger's heart was racing too fast, the pain intensifying. He began  
to buckle, but Victor held him.

Whatever was before him engulfed him, sharp things tearing at his  
skin. He heard Victor grunt as something hit him, a thousand  
somethings crashing into them, all around them. Granger felt  
something soft like hair, something like leather slapping his face.

He cried out, his hands going up to protect his face. His glasses were  
knocked off. 

Inside his chest, his heart seemed to roll over inside him, the pain  
too much now, breath leaving him. It rolled inside him as though it  
had been sleeping and was waking again. 

The last thing he heard was his own scream - terror and pain. The last  
thing he felt was the ground as his knees gave way, Victor's hands  
gone, and the earth striking his lifeless face.

 

*****


	5. Chapter 5

THE DESERT, FURTHER NORTH  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
OUTSIDE TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
6:35 p.m.

 

Though Albert Hosteen hadn't been there when Dana Scully had reached  
the end of the trail that overlooked the expanse of the desert around  
Two Grey Hills, his horse Ghost seemed to recall the incident well. 

Hosteen smiled as the reins slipped through his hands, Ghost pushing  
his long neck, the color of ash, down to the ground. The horse's  
nostrils ruffled the sand as he touched his nose to the ground, as if  
he were searching for some familiar scent at the edge of the   
clearing. Beside him, Sean's pony Cloud merely looked bored, as though  
the dead-end at this end of this, a different trail, were something  
the animal expected. Sean looked as confused as Hosteen had known  
Scully had when confronted with the drop way off in the   
desert, also guarded by a scraggled tree poised on the edge of  
Nothing. 

Hosteen waited. The anger wouldn't be long behind, and he knew it. It  
began to bloom on the boy's face, the sun just there enough on the  
horizon to illuminate the two of them, up high over the riverbed. The  
rage hung there as Sean looked at him, caught in the boy's   
pupils like golden dots of light. 

He let the smile vanish from his face, his lips drawing down. His back  
straightened, and as he shifted Ghost's neck came up, the horse  
cocking an ear. 

"You want to say something to me," he said, not breaking Sean's gaze.

The boy didn't blink, but his lips thinned. His reddish hair, too long  
now for a boy his age, was shot across his forehead like slashes  
above his eyes. The crow's feather that Hosteen had banded in his  
hair stood at an angle, glistening black, cocked like a banner   
or a sail. 

"You want to know where the Medicine Man is," Hosteen continued, and  
he looked out over the expanse of the land before him, though he  
could still feel Sean's eyes on him. "Where the one is who will take  
away your suffering. As I've promised you."

From the desert, and from Sean, only silence. 

If Hosteen looked hard enough out over the white band of the riverbed,  
out toward the mountains wearing their cloaks of shadows, he could  
see himself out on the desolate landscape, one as stark as the  
terrain within when, just back from the war, he'd fled the   
reservation from this spot and headed out into the wilderness. What  
he'd seen in Poland, Russia, was burned behind his eyes and he'd gone  
from this place, from the clearing with its one tree standing like a  
ghost, its limbs thin as arms, its bark white as bone. What he'd   
heard, speaking into a cone-shaped mouthpiece, muttering of CodeTalk  
about the end of the world...

He'd thought to find the end of his own out here among the mountains.  
That's what he came out here to do that day in the winter of 1945.  
Just as the water had appeared and disappeared from the riverbed,  
just as the men he'd worked for and appeared and disappeared as  
quickly as smoke, he'd planned to vanish himself.

But what he'd found out here among the brush, the trails for wild  
things moving up and down the mountains, and within the fire, had  
stopped him from doing so. Out here, he'd decided to live in a  
different way. Instead of Vanishing, he had returned instead. 

The dot of him out in the desert that he saw in his mind as he looked  
at the landscape, which never seemed to change here and never would,  
was replaced by the sight of Sean beside him as he turned his face.  
The boy was seething, heat seeming to rise off him as Hosteen looked  
at him and did not smile. 

"The one who will take away your suffering is here," he said, and his  
voice seemed to echo in the stillness. "We will wait."

With that, he swung his leg over the worn saddle and stepped down hard  
onto the packed, dry earth. 

 

****

9:13 p.m.

 

One thing that Sean could never become accustomed to was how cold the  
desert was at night, or how much the stars out here, away from any  
light, looked so much like eyes. 

He was a thin small boy, small even for his age. His arms were too  
pale, his skin too white, even after all this time in the desert. He  
hated the way he looked, catching a glimpse of his milky skin in the  
orange of the firelight. He thought, looking at the shadows across  
his bare chest, light catching in the ridges of his ribcage, that he  
was the most pathetic creature on earth. 

As if to prove him right, his jeans - bought for a dollar at the  
Salvation Army Thrift in town - slipped on his hips as he shifted,  
the tattered band of his briefs peeking out. Even Cloud seemed to be  
rolling his eyes as the pony glanced over at him, tucked into Ghost's  
side in the shadows on the fire's right. 

He was freezing, and the lines Hosteen had drawn on his chest looked  
maudlin, lines of red and black. He could feel the stinking paint  
crusting on his cheeks, across his forehead. He wore a scratchy band  
of what felt like sackcloth, and the crow's feather was pricking   
at the back of his head and tugging his hair.

Little baby, he heard John Fagan's voice say, as it had a thousand  
times before. Little baby go and cry some more...

He'd hated Fagan. Looking into the fire he wanted to say it aloud. 

He hated him almost as much as he hated Hosteen across from him, the  
old man sitting there with paint on his face and his hands on his  
knees. The Indian was even sitting Indian-Style. It was like a giant  
joke, all of this, and Sean was the punch line or the butt   
of it. 

Liar, he wanted to say, looking at Hosteen through the flames. Above  
him even the pale moon, looking too small and too far away, seemed to  
laugh. 

You're just another bloody liar.

"Say it," Hosteen said over the angry sound of the burning wood.  
Hosteen had sprinkled some hocus-pocus powder on the wood before he'd  
lit it and the wood was burning blue- green flame. It crackled in the  
fire as though it was arguing with itself.

It's just a bunch of shite, he thought. His mouth was a thin line and  
the words wouldn't come out. 

You're just a bunch of shite, you stupid, lying old man. 

"Say it," Hosteen said again. Only his mouth moved when he spoke. His  
eyes, black as oil, were as dark as space.

The paint had begun to itch on Sean's face. He wanted to wipe it away,  
but his hands, cupping the balls of his kneecaps, wouldn't move. His  
nails were digging into the soft white skin there, and he could feel  
the crescent shapes of them pressing in.

The feather in his hair, the hours spent in the desert. The journey he  
was on to meet the mysterious Medicine Man who would take away his  
pain...lies. Everything had been a -

"Lie," he said aloud, meaning to shout it. It came out as a puff of  
air.

"Hmm," Hosteen said, his face the same mask. Sean thought he might be  
made of wood, he sat so still across from him, his darker skin thin  
against the old rigging of his ribs. 

"Fucking cigar store. Fucking Indian piece of shite."

Not his voice. His father's voice.

Hosteen smiled, then a laugh bubbled up from deep within his chest. 

Sean heard it, the moon above him laughing, as well, and hated even  
more. It felt like electricity was running through his veins, hot and  
fast and almost painful beneath his bread-colored skin.

"I wondered when you would let me meet your father," Hosteen said, his  
hands sliding from his knees to the too-thin waist above his pants. 

He reached in front of him to the small wooden bowls of paint. The  
black, the red, were dripping at the edges, almost dried. A bowl of  
yellow in the center was untouched. Hosteen touched the surface, and  
his finger seemed to glow with the brightness of it.

"No one's coming." Sean's voice, soft, as though tinged with  
feathers.

Hosteen's mouth quirked. "Might be surprised," he said.

"There's no one out here at all, is there?" Owen's voice.

Hosteen chuffed. "Only who we bring with us," he replied, looking  
bemused. He touched the yellow paint to the crags beneath his eyes.  
Two swipes and his eyes glowed. 

Sean felt himself rise, as though a hand had reached down and hauled  
him up, dragging him.

"There's no such thing as magic!" His father's voice roared from his  
throat. "A bunch of silly powder made of horse shite and you and your  
fucking face paint, you bloody stupid old FUCK!"

Hosteen threw back his head and laughed full out now. His teeth looked  
like headstones and his eyes glowed. He looked at Sean and said  
something in Navajo. Sean heard the word for "close." Or "closer."  
Then his father's name.

"THERE'S NO SUCH THING!" 

The words filled the air, over the bluish flames, the blue stars  
shining. 

Hosteen laughed again, and the sound surrounded Sean there, a cold  
wind coming up off the cliff.

"No," Hosteen said, shaking his head slowly, still smiling  
cryptically. "Not the kind of magic you have been thinking of. No  
Medicine Man to take away your pain. Or your rage."

"Then you lied," Sean spat, his own voice gaining. He sounded like a  
boy to his ears. A little boy.

Little baby cry some more...

Hosteen shook his head again. 

"No," he said. "I did not." 

Sean felt the current rising in him, his arms rising, his hands - as  
though not his hands - reaching for the band around his head, the  
black feather. His chest felt like it was swelling, as though he were  
growing right before Hosteen's eyes. In a few seconds, he   
thought, he'd be able touch the sky. 

He opened his mouth and raged.

He heard the sound of something beating the air, a high-pitched  
chitter, a cry. He felt something nick his cheek as it blurred by in  
a cloud of sound and motion, the smell of ammonia hovering with the  
scream around his face.

 

*****

 

Hosteen had smelled the animals coming, heard the sound of their  
wings. He'd seen the light rising from the flames, the fire's fingers  
reaching higher as the wind rushing ahead of the mass of bodies  
pushed across the clearing. 

Across the firelight, Sean Curran's neck was taut, tendons standing  
out stark through his thin skin, the boy's hands crumpled into tight  
fists and his arms over his head, his legs spread out so that the  
child's body formed an X against the blanket of sky behind him.

And all around his body, black shapes were moving, slapping the air  
with their leathery wings. Hosteen saw, glinting with the light of  
the fire, eyes on eyes, mouths open, tiny teeth. The bats were  
thumping against Sean's back, glancing off his arms, battering him   
with their wings. They tumbled around his feet, slapping the sand. One  
glanced off the boy's shoulder and spun into the fire, knocking a  
small piece of wood off in a hail of sparks as it fled with a  
screech.

Seeing the sparks, the wood rolling in its sleeve of fire, Sean ran to  
it, the bats still streaming, and picked up the end of the wood, a  
burned-out place, swung the piece up, brandishing it. Hosteen watched  
the boy turn to him, his mouth still open, his teeth bared,   
a tumble of obscenities filling the air. 

Hosteen didn't move as Sean stood, the fire over him. The red paint on  
his face caught the light, a smear like blood beneath his eyes. 

"WHY???" 

It was long, the single syllable seeming to stretch forever, over the  
blue fire, past Hosteen as though it were following the bats away  
into the darkness, the last of the creatures righting themselves on  
the ground and taking flight. 

Sean moved, fast. 

He went to the campfire, its flames high, his small legs kicking out.  
Hosteen watched him disappear into a cloud of sparks, the single word  
repeating, Sean swinging with his arms at the ash, dots of fire  
dancing around him. The neat pile of wood scattered, flames   
snuffing out, sand and smoke and cinders flying. Hosteen watched tiny  
specks of heat cling to Sean's bare skin - his face, his chest. 

When the boy hit the ground on his knees, the sword of wood falling,  
Hosteen rose at last. 

"Wish-te..." he murmured softly, coming slowly to his feet. 

Sean was sobbing, an arm holding his belly, his hand crawling up his  
throat to cover his mouth. His small fingers were trembling and he  
retched. 

"God..." Sean choked. "Oh God..."

"Wish-te," Hosteen said, going to stand behind him, the moon shining  
down on them, tiny bits of fire on bits of wood the only other light.  
He knelt down and touched the boy's shoulder. He felt muscle there.

"I'm burned," Sean gasped out, coughing as the heaving passed. "Mr.  
Hosteen, I'm burned." He wiped his face with a dirty hand. 

Sean's voice, Hosteen noted, was his own. Hoarse, strained. But his  
own.

"You are all right now," Hosteen said softly, his fingers pressing  
into Sean's shoulder. 

As he did so, Sean straightened his back, heaving in breath. 

"I'm sorry," Sean said softly. "I'm--"

"Hmm," Hosteen interrupted, the last of the fire winking out. "It is  
the past."

After a moment, Sean drew in a deep breath, his hand going to  
Hosteen's on his shoulder. He nodded. 

"Yes."

The moon and stars looked down on at the clearing, Hosteen and Sean  
still and warm and quiet. 

Hosteen smiled as Sean's face came up to look above them, the young  
man safe - at last - - in the cool blue light.

 

******

 

THE HOGAN  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 6

 

"Hey boy."

Granger heard the voice close by, but the darkness around him was so  
complete he didn't know where to find its source. There was something  
light to his left, though; he could see it behind his lids, a  
swimming of light as though Christmas lights were dancing in front   
of the drapes of his eyes. 

He pulled himself up from the darkness, one rung at a time. He felt  
impossibly heavy as he turned his face toward the light. 

"Who's there?" he said, though it came out as barely a whisper, his  
mouth too dry and his throat feeling parched. 

"You open your eyes and look at me when I'm talking to you," the voice  
said again. There was some unmistakable tenor of authority to the  
voice, and something familiar about it, as well, though Granger had  
never heard the voice before.

He did as he was told, his eyes opening to slits, and took in his  
surroundings, his eyes widening as he looked around. 

A wooded area, a canopy of trees so dense that the sunlight barely  
came through to where he lay on the ground, covered in fallen leaves.  
He was naked, but was covered from the waist down by the orange and  
rust-brown leaves. More were falling around him, making   
lazy circles down toward the forest's floor. He could hear birds  
singing off in the distance, and the air smelled loamy, cool like the  
days of fall just before it would turn to winter. 

And beside him, in a Baltimore City Police uniform, his blue hat in  
his hand, was the man he'd seen in the photos on his mother's mantle  
his whole life. 

His father.

Thomas Granger was worrying the brim of his hat between his meaty  
fingers, turning the hat around in a slow circle in his hands. He was  
a huge man, taller than Granger and heavily muscled, a paunch  
beginning to show above his belt. His dress uniform's breast   
was dotted with citations. His hair was beginning to gray.

"Sweet Jesus, boy, you look like a dog came by and buried you right  
there in them leaves," Thomas said, gesturing to the leaves with his  
hat. 

Granger smiled faintly. "I'd imagine so," he said, his voice finding a  
bit of strength. 

"You know where you're at?" his father asked him, and Granger glanced  
around, barely moving his head as his eyes took in the canopy, the  
leaves, the thin bars of sunlight that were pushing their ways  
through the trees.

"Heaven?" Granger asked, and Thomas Granger started laughing, deep  
chuckles that seemed to come from the bottom of his belly.

"No, this ain't heaven," he said, still laughing. "You see any wings  
on me?"

Granger smiled again, feeling foolish in front of his father, a man  
who had died when he was a baby, a man whose face he knew only from  
grim photographs and the vague, gauzy memories of infancy.

"No, sir," he said. He'd always imagined he'd call his father "sir,"  
and he tried it on for size. It felt right. 

"Then where...?" he trailed off. He wanted to lift his hand to reach  
toward his father, to see if the other man was real, but he couldn't  
move. 

"You're in a bad way, son," Thomas said. "I reckon you know that,  
though. You've known for a long time." 

Granger nodded. 

Thomas looked up at the trees. "There's some folks down there helping  
you, you know," he said. "Good folks. Not the kind of folks I would  
have paid much mind to back in my day, but I've learned a few things  
in my time. Quite a few things. I come to believe some   
things I wouldn't have believed before. I come to know you in a way I  
don't think I could have known you if I'd been with you when you was  
growing up."

He paused, looked down at Granger, and Granger wondered, in a moment  
like the ones he'd had his whole life if his father was proud of the  
man he'd become. How many nights had he lain awake - especially as a  
young man - and thought that? It had haunted him as surely as any  
ghost. 

"Of course I'm proud of you," Thomas said. "How couldn't I be?" He  
smiled, and Granger met his eyes, surprised. His father's eyes were  
shining. 

"You ain't got no secrets here, son," Thomas said softly, looking down  
at the brim of his hat. There was something shy about the gesture and  
the older man's smile.

Granger simultaneously liked and disliked the sound of that. He only  
wished it went both ways. He would have liked to know his father that  
way, what he felt and what he thought.

"Remember when you was a boy and you used to stand outside the Senator  
at night?" Thomas said, returning his gaze to Granger's face.

Granger smiled. He remembered the small boy he was, too-big jeans and  
striped shirts and glasses already on his face, his eyes on the  
running electric bulbs of the old theatre, the thing lit up  
impossibly bright, and posters of beautiful people in the frames, a  
cashier lazing in the single glass ticket sale box.

"Yes," he said. "I remember." 

"That theatre is like me, I reckon," the elder Granger said, sounding  
tired. "You have to stand on that sidewalk, son, and you ain't old  
enough to come in. I guess that was our agreement when you were born,  
though I didn't know that when I first looked at you. I   
figure it's that way with all fathers and sons, though, now that I  
think on it more." 

Granger studied his father's hands, the glint on the dark barrel of  
his service revolver, a six-shooter Granger remembered finding in a  
drawer when he was a boy. 

"What I do remember, though," Thomas continued, "was looking at you  
right after you were born and thinking: 'that's my boy.' I remember  
putting my hand in the middle of your chest and thinking: 'that's my  
heart beating inside there,' and looking at your face and thinking  
that those were my eyes looking back at me." 

"I'm sorry," Granger said softly to his father. 

"For what?" Thomas asked, seeming almost amused by Granger's words.  
"For getting shot? You can't do nothing about that, boy. You can't do  
no more good for that than I could for what happened to me."

"I've failed you, sir," Granger replied, his eyes filling. He hated  
that he couldn't move his hand to wipe them away.

"By doing what?" 

"Dying," Granger said flatly. 

Thomas Granger smiled again at that. "You ain't dying, son," he said.  
He set his hat on the ground in front of him with care, then reached  
up to the silver badge on his chest. It was that, Granger realized,  
that had been giving off the shine he'd seen before waking, the   
twinkle like Christmas tree lights. 

"What's in you might have give out, boy," Thomas said, freeing the  
badge at last. He held it in his hand, and it glowed there from some  
otherworldly light. "But I'm your father now as much as I was that  
first time I held you, and what I got inside me...well, I'm reckon  
I'll give that to you again." 

Granger watched the badge as his father leaned forward, the silver  
shining like starlight. He watched as his father laid the badge in  
the center of his bare chest, the metal feeling either impossibly  
cold or impossibly hot. 

Granger felt his head going light, his eyes lolling.

"I've got to get on my way," Thomas said, picking up his hat. He  
brushed at it, cleaning off the already-immaculate insignia on the  
front with his thumb. Granger watched him, his father's image going  
hazy, the canopy seeming to give way to a onslaught of light that   
spread out behind his father like wings. 

"You take care of yourself, Paul," he heard his father say, the first  
time he'd heard his father call him by his name. 

Granger nodded. "You, too, Dad," he whispered, his lids closing, his  
face going slack. 

Things began to dim around him, as though a candle had faltered and  
was about to wink out.

"Oh, and son?"

Granger couldn't open his eyes, the birdsong gone, the cool autumn  
replaced with the smell of wood burning, and something sweet. He  
could hear people talking around him, their voices far away and in  
some language that was familiar but which he didn't understand. 

"Sir?" he whispered to the darkness.

"Marry that girl, will you? It's giving your momma a fit..."

Granger could sense light in front of him, getting brighter. He went  
toward it, a laugh rising in his chest.

 

*****

UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 759  
OVER THE WESTERN WEST VIRGINIA BORDER  
4:32 a.m.

 

Christie Collin liked the look of West Virginia as the sun began to  
rise, the land below him the first true mountains he'd seen in a long  
time. He knew that by the standards of most mountains the  
Appalachians weren't the most impressive one could find, with their   
soft-topped mountains covered in trees, all just getting their darker  
green, but he found them beautiful to look at, there in seat 16A, his  
window just missing the silver and white wing.

There was something comforting about old mountains, he thought. Their  
lack of dramatic peaks showed an area that had stopped changing so  
long ago there were barely words to describe their age, a place  
devoid of upset or change. A million years of wearing down   
below him, but mountains just the same.

"How much longer do we have to sit on this bloody plane?" Bridget  
snapped from beside him. Her voice was changed again, a slight hiss  
beneath the words. 

Christie turned his face toward her. He'd grown used to the way she  
looked now, her face like a drowned thing, her eyes gone from icy  
blue to fish-belly white. Her red hair was as wild as a mass of  
snakes. 

"We haven't been flying that long," he said softly, trying to placate  
her, though he knew she'd have none of that. 

"How much longer?" she snapped. Her breath was as fetid as old  
cheese.

"About four hours," Christie replied, glancing at his watch. "We'll  
get a car once we're there and be on our way." 

She said something under her breath he didn't hear, turning to face a  
man across the aisle who was looking at them strangely. Christie  
followed her gaze to the man's bewildered and accusing face.

"Son?" the man asked. He was wearing boots made out of hide with  
business slacks, an open white shirt of expensive brand.

"Sir?" he replied.

"You all right?" the man asked, pure Texas drawl. "Who the hell you  
talking to over there?"

Christie smiled. "Did I say that out loud?" he asked, aw-shucksing  
himself into his best Southern American accent. "Sorry, mister. I  
think I'm still half asleep." He laughed.

The man smiled a congenial smile, looking a little relieved. "You  
should get you some coffee when they come by," he replied. "Shake  
yourself awake. Keep talking like that and somebody might think your  
cheese had slipped off your cracker." He winked a fatherly   
wink.

Christie laughed nervously. "Heaven forbid," he drawled, reaching for  
the in-flight magazine. "Sorry to bother you." 

The man smiled, went back to his laptop, tapping away. 

Christie was looking at a picture of Monaco when he heard Bridget's  
derisive laugh, and he looked back toward the window, the ground  
tilting as they banked.

"Wanker," she hissed, settling down to rest beside him, the word  
carried on a rancid puff of breath.

 

******

THE RUE INN  
BALLYCASTLE  
NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
7:15 a.m.

 

Ever since the time in the rain he'd spent out on the ledge with  
Renahan, Mulder had found he liked the privacy of the space outside  
the window. He liked the smell of the ocean and the view, the way the  
waves came up on the shore below the inn as though there were a  
perpetual storm somewhere off the shore that he couldn't see but that  
was always raging.

The waves were hitting the shoreline like fists. Mulder watched them  
in the morning light, one that had not seemed to come with a sunrise  
but rather with a bleeding of light. He shivered in his blue  
sweatshirt, his jeans feeling too thin against his legs as the breeze  
pressed against the cloth. 

Inside, he heard Skinner return from the shower down the hall, the  
tumble of his kitbag as it hit the mattress of his narrow twin bed. 

"What's it today?" Mulder called from the balcony. "Leprechaun  
hunting?" 

He heard Skinner give a derisive chuff. "No, I thought I'd just go all  
out and kiss the fucking Blarney Stone today." 

"Leave me out of your personal life, sir," Mulder quipped, leaning up  
from where he'd been pressed against the railing. 

"You wish," Skinner growled back. 

"Where *are* you going?" Mulder said as he re-entered the room,  
grateful for the creaking radiator's heat. Skinner was there in his  
jeans, no shirt, sniffing the shirt he'd worn the day before. 

"I'm going with Neill to the dock today," he said sourly. "He said  
something about you and Renahan taking the car and going to some pub  
in town, seeing if anyone would talk to you."

"Great," Mulder replied. "I'll sit there and get to enjoy that special  
thrill of being stared at while Renahan goes eight sheets to the  
wind. It'll be great." He tossed Skinner the shirt he'd worn the day  
before, another of Neill's. "Try this one."

Skinner caught it in mid-air, gave it a sniff, and started shouldering  
into it. "Bitch to him when he gets out of the shower if you want,"  
he said.

There was a soft knock at the door. 

"All the good that'll do," Mulder said, matching Skinner's previous  
sour tone as he went for the door. "I just bet--"

He stopped speaking at the sight of a strange man in the now-open  
doorway, an elderly man with the bluest eyes Mulder had ever seen,  
light, the color sky. He was holding an Irish Poor Boy cap in his  
hands, his white hair pressed against his head in its shape. He   
wore a dark green coat, too heavy for the chill outside, and black  
cords that had gone slightly gray. 

He was glancing down the hallway, not quite nervously, but clearly  
concerned that he might be seen. 

"Can I help you?" Mulder asked. Part of him wondered where his gun  
was, and part of him wondered why he was wondering. The man didn't  
look threatening at all, certainly not with his face turned slightly  
down and his lips turned slightly up. 

Skinner had taken up a place behind him. Mulder could feel his quiet  
presence just over his right shoulder.

"I wondered if I might come in and have a word," the man said softly.  
He glanced at Skinner. "With you both, that is." 

Mulder gnawed his lower lip, turned and looked at Skinner, who, though  
he didn't move, seemed to give his assent as he flicked his eyes from  
Mulder to the man and back again. 

"Sure," Mulder said, pushing the door further open and standing aside  
to let the man enter. Though the man moved from the hallway with some  
haste, he was stiff, as though he were in a great deal of pain.  
Mulder closed the door behind him with a soft snitch of   
sound. 

Mulder gestured to the chair in the corner, a gold tweed chair with  
arms that ended in scrolls. "Have a seat, Mister...?"

"Shea," the man said quietly, settling into the chair. "James Shea."  
He lay his cap on his knee, anchoring it there. 

Mulder and Skinner stood before him, Mulder crossing his arms over his  
chest. He felt uncertain as the man looked up at him, over him. He  
heaved out a sigh, a pained look on his face as he touched his side.

"Can we get you something, Mr. Shea?" Skinner said from Mulder's  
right.   
"No, nothing," Shea said, peering up at Mulder again. "There's not a  
thing to do about it at this point, I'm afraid." 

Mulder waited, and Skinner grew silent. 

"I'm sorry," Mulder offered. It seemed the polite thing to say. 

Shea simply looked down, seeming to be searching for something in the  
woven rug with his eyes.

"What can we do for you, sir?" Mulder asked as the silence grew. 

"Not a thing," Shea said again. "But I think I can do a bit for you,  
Mr. Mulder."

Mulder stood very still, but Skinner took a step forward, so that he  
was standing next to Mulder now, peering down at the old man.

Mulder, for his part, was studying the man's face. What was it Neill  
had said? About the man they were looking for? 

His eyes. That his eyes were the sharpest Neill had ever seen. 

Like the eyes of the man in front of him, their clear almost eerie  
blue gaze settled on Mulder's face. 

"You're the man we've been looking for," Mulder said. The room seemed  
terrible quiet, and Mulder wished he'd not only closed the door but  
locked it, as well. 

"Aye," Shea said. "That's me. And I know why you're looking for me, as  
well. You think I've got a name for you. The name of the person who's  
been after your wife." 

"Do you?" Skinner snapped. Mulder could almost feel Skinner coiling  
for a strike, the weeks of inaction wearing on Skinner in a single  
instant as he prepared to act. 

Shea looked up at Skinner, but it was Mulder's face he settled on as  
he spoke. "Aye. Anna Simms Collin is the name you want." 

Mulder didn't know what name he was expecting, but that wasn't it. A  
man, for starters. A man with a name he knew already, like Curran or  
Fagan.

"Why?" Among the maelstrom of emotions that began to whirl in him,  
that word was the only one he could get out. "What did my wife ever  
do to her?" The anger was in his voice now.

Shea looked up. "Your wife killed her son," he said simply. 

 

Mulder felt his jaw working. "John Fagan?" he bit out. "He was Anna  
Simms Collin's son?"

The old man nodded. "Aye. That's the name he went by. To protect the  
family. His real name's Samuel John Collin, though only a few people  
ever knew him by that name. And even fewer ever knew hers. One of the  
oldest families in Northern Ireland, and probably the most wealthy,  
most well-connected. She's got access to people everywhere - militias,  
government at every stage. Sinn Fein. IRA. Even dirty Brits, I've  
heard said. She's the one who's been after your wife." 

As he saw Mulder begin to speak, he amended: "Well, not her, per se,  
but Christie. John's brother Aidan's son." 

"My wife didn't kill John Fagan," Mulder said. "Though I wish to  
Christ she had. Mae Curran killed him."

Shea looked up, surprised. "...Mae?" His voice was faint. 

"Yes, MAE," Mulder said, furious. He could feel fire behind his eyes.

"I can't believe she'd do that," Shea said, shaking his head. "I can't  
think of anything that would make her. Leaving her brother when he  
went 'round is one thing, but killing someone she'd known since she  
was a girl? No. I can't think of a thing that would make   
her do such a thing."

That was it. Mulder felt something in him draw thinner and thinner and  
then snap.

"How about walking into an apartment and finding Fagan about to rape  
my wife?" Mulder roared. "Rape her AGAIN, I should say!"

He felt like he'd just breathed flame into Shea's face. He saw Shea  
blanche, and Mulder felt, vaguely, Skinner's hand close around his  
forearm.

Too late. The fury was already rushing out of him in a seething wave.

"Scully could barely fucking STAND when he was done with her, Mr.  
Shea, and I thank GOD Mae Curran found it in herself to break your  
goddamn 'code of honor' and send that son-of-a-bitch straight to  
Hell." 

"Mulder," Skinner said through grit teeth. "Lower your voice, for  
Christ's sake." 

Shea had paled visibly under the onslaught of Mulder's words, and as  
Skinner silenced them, Shea's fingers worried his hat. They were  
shaking faintly.

"You have my apologies," Shea said. "I misspoke and I regret it."

Mulder jerked his arm away from Skinner, composing himself. 

Don't drive him away, he said to himself. This is it. There won't be  
any more chances for this.

"No, I'm sorry," he said, breathing out a calming breath. "What Fagan  
did...it's not your fault. I have no right to take that out on you."

Mulder watched Shea's face as his eyes returned their gaze to the rug,  
the window, anywhere but Mulder's face. 

"Things got out of hand," he said, as though to himself. "Everyone  
knew they were out of hand. We didn't know how much until Washington,  
though. Until the Embassy. And the deaths in Richmond. Even then I  
couldn't believe it. Until I saw what Owen was willing   
to do to Mae in that canyon. Then I knew he was too far gone to  
save."

Mulder gaped, understanding flooding him. 

"It was you," he said quietly. 

Shea looked up as though caught. 

"Aye," he said just as softly. He nodded toward Mulder's torso. "And  
I'm frankly surprised you survived that shot to the belly, Mr.  
Mulder. You're sturdier than me." 

Mulder touched his stomach, the crescent of scar there beneath his  
shirt. He looked at Shea with a new, and grateful, respect.

"Where?" Skinner snapped before Mulder could reply. "Where are they?  
The Collinses."

Shea met Skinner's eyes, hesitating. Then he seemed to come to his  
final decision, his voice tired as he spoke. 

"I know exactly where Anna Simms is," he said. "In Antrim. I'll draw  
you a map to show you the way."

"I'll go get Neill and Renahan," Skinner said, grabbing his pistol and  
its holster from the foot of the bed.

"Don't go alone," Shea said, pinning Skinner with his eyes. "Trust me  
on that. Take a bloody crowd with you if you're going that way." 

Skinner nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Shea," he said. "We owe you a great  
debt. This must be dangerous for you, being here and telling us these  
things." 

Shea shrugged. "They'll let me be," he said, his voice unreadable. 

"I hope you're right," Skinner said, and he went out the door, closing  
it hard behind him. 

Mulder turned to gather his gun from the dressing table by the wall,  
but Shea's voice behind him stopped him.

"Mr. Mulder."

Mulder turned to look at him, not liking the sound of his name.

"Christie Collin," Shea said, looking grim, "is, from what I  
understand, on his way to New Mexico. Someplace called Farmington."

Mulder's heart went into free-fall in his chest. 

"Nearly there by now, I'd guess," Shea continued into Mulder's shocked  
silence. "And this time, he'll be sure not to make any mistakes." 

 

*****

 

ST. FRANCIS REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER  
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO  
10:05 a.m.

 

She'd dreamed of horses.

Black horses, white horses, the horses the color of buckskin. She'd  
dreamed of them running across an open field of flowers, then dreamed  
of herself standing in the middle of a tightly gathered herd on a  
wide expanse of snow, all of them white except a lone, ink-  
black mare on which she'd sat, the white horses with their backs  
facing a stiff wind while she and the black mare faced it. She  
remembered the tickle of the horse's long mane against her hands. 

She'd dreamed of riding a paint horse through a river of what looked  
like blood. She remembered drowning in it. 

Scully sat on the edge of her hospital bed, dressed now in the clothes  
that Mae had brought the night before for her discharge this morning.  
She wore her clothes like armor: Mulder's sweatshirt, maternity jeans  
that were growing a bit too small around her belly, her brown boots  
with heavy socks so that the boots felt almost too tight. 

She'd come in with nothing, and she would be leaving with only a small  
plastic bag of the hospital's toiletries, a smaller bag inside with  
sedatives and vitamins, the phone number of Dr. Kitman and the  
medical center's emergency line. 

Inside herself she carried a larger load - terrible memories that were  
too clear of Mulder's body sprawled out on a scuffed convenience  
store floor and her daughter's anguish, and beyond that some  
recollection of the Hosteen's barn and blood on her face and on her   
hands.

She clutched the bag closer to her, pushed a long strand of hair  
behind her ear, forcing herself into some semblance of composure.  
Hosteen was on his way to take her back to the reservation, and she  
would not let him see her unraveled or as heavily burdened as   
she felt inside. 

Mulder was on his way, she imagined, and she wanted him to see even  
less of it. At least until she figured out the best way to tell him  
about the things she'd seen, and what she thought they could mean.

 

"Dr. Scully?" a voice called from the crack in the doorway, knuckles  
rapping softly on the door's thick wood. 

"Yes?" she called, and a head popped through the door, a friendly  
smile on the young man's face. He wore scrubs and a stethoscope and a  
lab coat sewn with his name and the words "Internal Medicine." He  
wore the exhausted pallor and carriage of a resident that   
she could recognize from a mile away. She smiled at that.

"Hi, Dr. Scully," he said, coming forward with a chart and his hand  
outstretched. She took it and he squeezed. "I'm Dr. Ames. Dr. Kitman  
asked me to check and make sure you were clear on your discharge  
instructions before you left us." He gave a shy smile.   
His face, beneath his short-cropped hair, was flushed. "I know for a  
physician such as yourself that probably sounds silly, but...procedur  
es, you know." 

Scully smiled. "I understand, Doctor," she said, bemused. "I  
understand everything he left in the discharge instructions."

Dr. Ames looked down at the bag beside her on the bed. "And you've got  
everything you need from us?"

She nodded. "Yes. Medications...a few things..." She trailed off. 

He nodded, crossing his arms over the chart and pressing it against  
his chest. "How do you feel?" His voice was pitched low and gentle,  
and it renewed the vulnerable feeling she'd been fighting with all  
morning. Kindness had a way of doing that.

She looked down, away from his knit brows, his concerned face. 

"I'm all right," she said. "Much better than last night."

"You sure you're ready to leave us?" he asked. He reached out and  
touched her hand. "Dr. Kitman told me where you're staying and I  
worry about that, to be honest."

Scully smiled. "The Hosteens are more than attentive," she replied.  
"Trust me. From what I understand I made record time getting here  
from the reservation. I'm just glad I was unconscious for the ride."

Ames laughed. "I can imagine," he said, amused. He looked at his  
watch, a huge, battered piece on his thin wrist. "I've got to  
continue on with my rounds. But I did want to make sure you had  
everything you need before you left us." 

He reached out his hand and she took it, the smile still on his face.

"Be well, and good luck to you, Doctor," he said softly, his eyes  
going over her face. 

"Thank you, Doctor," she said softly, quirking a smile at their shared  
title.

"To you both, that is," he added, and his hand left hers and touched  
her belly lightly before he turned and left.

Scully sat there as the intercom called for a doctor to pick up a  
line, as the staff moved the cart down the hall that would take her  
untouched breakfast away. She smoothed her hand over her belly, her  
eyes down as the baby turned beneath her palm.

"Agent Scully?" 

It was a tiny, faintly familiar voice. A child's voice. She jerked her  
head up in surprise.

Sean Curran stood there in the doorway, his hair still damp from a  
shower. He wore a Cardinals sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that  
actually seemed to fit. 

"Sean?" she said, staring at him. Had he actually spoken? Part of her  
wondered if she'd imagined hearing her name.

"Aye," Sean replied. "Mr. Hosteen told me to come up and tell you he's  
got the truck out front and someone was on the way to fetch you. He's  
keeping it running so that it won't be so cold when you get in."

Scully looked at Sean, at the redness of his eyes, the tiny pocks of  
what looked like burns dotting his face. 

Thank God, she thought as a smile spread on her face. 

"Thank you, Sean," she replied. "And it's good to see you again." 

Sean gave her a shy smile, his eyes going down. "Thanks," he said in  
his small, lovely voice, and he turned and walked away.

**

Outside, the back lot, Christie Collin was out the glass doors and  
moving through the parking lot, the white lab coat he'd stolen  
flapping behind him, his shoes - encased in surgical covers - making  
no sound as he walked. 

The scrubs fit him nicely. He would keep them when he stopped to  
change his clothes, when he tossed everything else away.

He reached his rental, picked up at Four Corners Regional not an hour  
before, his bags tucked safely in the back. 

The Yellow Pages were open on the seat, a map of Farmington he got  
from Avis beside it. The page was open to "Home Repair and Lawn," an  
address circled in a large red loop.

A stop at Home Depot. 

At the library for Internet White Page access. 

A drive into the desert.

He was almost there. 

 

*****

 

OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN   
BOUND FOR ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE  
11:09 a.m.

 

It was something like flying in a packing crate, though the cargo  
transport plane had been fitted with some seats against the walls  
that approximated the skeletons of airline seats, their seats  
retracting into the walls, and the seatbelts fitted over the shoulder  
as well as the waist. It was the noise that was the most striking  
difference, the plane's huge engines coming through the steel walls  
much more clearly than they did through a passenger jet's   
and making Mulder feel like his brain was vibrating in a pan.

He was far from complaining, though. Rosen had given the Royal Air  
Force a call after he'd received Skinner's update on the information  
from James Shea, and the R.A.F. had been good enough to oblige with a  
seat on the first plane leaving Belfast for the States. 

The plane's innards were filled with crates, pieces of airplanes. A  
few soldiers lounged or slept, all wearing headphones, in the seats  
around him. For his part, Mulder sat in the clothes he'd been wearing  
plus a flight jacket loaned from the military on the ground,   
Belfast soaked with rain as the helicopter that had fetched him from  
Ballycastle had touched down on the tarmac, wind from the chopper  
sending Mulder into a crouch as he scrambled with the M-1 Liaison  
who'd met him on the ground.

"Agent Mulder," the man had shouted as they moved through the rain.  
"Director Rosen said he's waiting on the other end for you and doing  
what he can." 

"'Doing what he can'?" Mulder yelled back as the plane's pilot draped  
the leather and wool jacket across his back. "What the hell does that  
mean?"

The M-1 man shrugged. "Something about tribal jurisdictions or some  
lot. I didn't get it all, to be frank. He had to get off to handle  
some rot with M-1 and the blokes heading to Antrim. Sounded a bit  
upset about the whole thing, I'd say."

Mulder shook his head remembering it, blew out a breath, leaned his  
head against the chair's uncomfortable rest. This was the part he was  
worst at - things requiring a level head, patience, and acceptance of  
things outside of anyone's control, things like time and   
distances.

He'd like to meet a person who could handle them, he thought, turning  
his head to peer out the tiny window by the cargo bay door and seeing  
nothing but water beneath. He'd punch that person right in the  
teeth.

He saw a man coming down the narrow corridor between him and the  
crates, stepping over the sleeping soldiers' outstretched legs. He  
was wearing his flight gear, a pair of sunglasses in his hand.

"Agent Mulder," he said, his voice sounding too quiet to Mulder's  
noise-acclimated ears. The man leaned toward Mulder's face as he  
spoke again. "If you'll come to the cockpit, we've got a line for  
you. Director Rosen is waiting to speak to you."

Mulder nodded, unbuckled, and followed the man toward the front. As  
they reached an area where they could stand side-by-side, the plane  
hit a patch of turbulence that nearly knocked both men off their  
feet. Mulder ended up catching himself against a crate.

"All right?" the pilot called.

Mulder nodded, pushing himself off the crate. "What is all this  
stuff?" Mulder called, indicating the crate. "I didn't know Great  
Britain had a base in the U.S." 

The man laughed. "Not since 1775, if I recall," he replied. "Jet  
parts. Some yours and some ours. The RAF does a lot of cargo flights  
for the Yanks."

"I'm sure glad of that," Mulder continued as they kept moving toward  
the plane's front. 

The plane bucked again and the man steadied Mulder again. "That's one  
of us," he said as the plane narrowed into a small corridor, the  
cockpit's entrance open and a few feet from where they stopped.

"Here," the airman said, reaching for a set of fat headphones on a  
hook. They had a mike attached with a bulbous foam end. "You should  
be able to hear him fine, but you'll have to shout for him to hear  
you, all right?"

Mulder's voice was getting hoarse as it was, so he simply nodded and  
took the headphones, setting them tightly on his head. The airman  
threw a switch and the earpads stuttered to life.

"Director Rosen?" Mulder asked.

"I can hear you, Agent Mulder," Rosen's jowly voice came back. They  
didn't call him "The Godfather" for nothing. "But just barely." 

"I'm sorry, sir, but this was the best they could do. I appreciate you  
contacting me." At another pocket of turbulence, Mulder braced  
himself against the wall again. "Are agents on the reservation yet?"

A puff of static, then: "No, not yet."

"Why not?" Mulder called back. He could feel anger pricking in his  
chest. 

"Let me start by telling you we've been trying to contact both Albert  
Hosteen and Victor Hosteen, but we've gotten a voicemail at one and  
nothing but ringing at the other. We're continuing to try to get  
through to either of them and to Agent Music, though we're   
hampered by a cell phone dead-zone on the reservation, which I think  
Mr. Granger told you about."

"Yeah," Mulder said. "He told me. What about the F.B.I. there in New  
Mexico?" The plane rumbled around him.

"There are only seven agents in Albuquerque, Agent Mulder, and five of  
them are in Phoenix at the moment helping on a serial murder and  
immigration case. The two left I've told to stay put there while I  
scramble agents from Arizona. They're on their way, but I   
can't let them or any other federal or state authorities enter the  
reservation without tribal consent."

"What?!" Mulder shouted. He was glad he had to shout to be heard  
because he would have been doing it anyway. "That's ridiculous! Don't  
they know--"

"We've contacted the tribal council but they won't do anything until  
they speak to Albert Hosteen, whom, as I've said, we've been unable  
to reach. We've put in a request for the tribal police to go out to  
the ranch themselves and try to contact him, but they're still   
considering the proper course of action to take."

"'The proper course of action'?" Mulder shouted. His fury, for the  
second time that day, reached his boiling point. "For Christ's sake,  
do you think someone could climb in a covered fucking wagon and head  
over there--"

"Agent Mulder," Rosen interrupted, his tone dangerous. "I don't know  
if you were sleeping that day in school, but you *do* know that the  
Federal Government was *generous* enough to give the Navajos that  
land."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Yes, sir, I'm aware--"

"And maybe you were also sleeping when they were teaching you about  
the Federal gaffe at Wounded Knee at the Academy."

"No, sir, I know all about that," he said sourly. "But I would think  
under the circumstances--"

"Agent Mulder," Rosen interrupted again. "I know this is hard for you,  
but there are a few things to remember here. The first is that the  
Navajo Tribal authorities don't have the slightest idea what 'the  
circumstances' are at the Hosteen ranch. This was not done with   
their approval, if you'll recall, in order to keep Agent Scully's  
whereabouts as confidential as possible, and they're frankly a little  
suspicious, which I can't blame them for."

"Sir, I--" Mulder tried, but Rosen was rolling.

"The second is that though you've spent much of your career with the  
F.B.I. trying your best to circumvent proper procedure, I didn't get  
to be the Director of it by doing that. And some of the procedure I'm  
dealing with right now is completely new ground, for the   
Bureau and for the various outside organizations involved. I've been  
on the phone this morning with Scotland Yard, M-1, the Navajo Tribal  
Council, the New Mexico State Patrol and Counter-Terrorism in  
Northern Ireland. So you'll forgive me if this isn't going   
at your preferred pace." 

"And while you go forth and part the Red Tape," Mulder spat, "Christie  
Collin is going to waltz right onto the Hosteen ranch and get a clear  
shot at Scully. And begging your pardon, but considering how much he  
escalated the second time, I think their luck is about to run out." 

"Two officers from the Navajo Tribal Police are on their way out there  
to take Agent Scully and Mrs. Porter into custody," Rosen said. "Does  
that satisfy you?"

"No, it doesn't," Mulder said. "This man's killed how many people? And  
you're sending two officers with no experience in terrorist--"

"I'm not sending anyone except the agents from Phoenix and the State  
Police, all of whom I *do* have jurisdiction over," Rosen jumped in  
again. "The two-man team was the decision of the Tribal Council. They  
want both Agent Scully and Mae Porter off the reservation at this  
juncture. They don't want a Federal presence of any kind on their  
land. They don't want to be involved in this."

"Well that's fucking *great,*" Mulder replied, his cap finally popped.  
"What the fuck--"

"This conversation's over, Agent Mulder," Rosen said, and the tone was  
enough to cut short Mulder's tirade. "I don't have time for your  
emotionalism or your inability to maintain professional distance from  
this. And I'm warning you that when you land at Andrews and you see  
me standing there that you'd better have gotten more control of   
your temper and your tone."

"Or what?" Mulder shot back. "I'll wake up one morning with a fucking  
horse head in my bed?"

The line snicked off, static filling his ears.

Mulder took the headphones off and hung them hard on their hook, his  
jaw working as the plastic set swung back and forth.

"Fuck..." he said again, closing his eyes and drawing in what he hoped  
was a calming breath.

Rosen was right. His emotions were nothing but in the way, in his and  
Rosen's and Scully's. 

He knew Rosen was right about all of it. And that's what pissed him  
off the most.

 

*****

THE HOME OF ANNA SIMMS COLLIN  
ANTRIM, NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
11:12 a.m.

 

"You're bringing new meaning to the saying 'the wearing o' the green,'  
Mr. Skinner," Renahan said softly, a fit of chuckles taking him.

Skinner looked down at his knees and thighs, his soaking wet jeans  
smeared with enough chlorophyll for him to be able to make his own  
food for a month. He'd just scrabbled, crab-like, down from where the  
head of the Irish Counter-Terrorism Unit called in by Rosen was busy  
talking on a walkie-talkie, Skinner finally having procured one of the  
devices after much teeth-baring and beating of his chest. 

Now he was leaning up against a stone wall that was older than any  
structure in the United States, a symbolic barrier between the  
Collin's property and the neighbor's land. As near as Skinner could  
figure, the Collin property took up most of this half of the town.   
The round, white stones had tumbled in a few places, leaving ragged  
openings in the view toward the house. 

"Very funny, Ed," he replied, looking through one of the gaps to look  
at the stately Collin mansion, a slight wisp of smoke coming from one  
of the house's five chimneys. 

Neill was next to him in a windbreaker whose waterproof qualities had  
long since given in to the rain. The small Scotland Yard group had  
seen fit to give Renahan one of their jackets, one very much like the  
one Skinner would typically wear, with the Scotland Yard   
insignia hidden in a rip-away back flap. As it was, his suitcase  
floating in some Lough across the countryside, Skinner was left with  
the long-sleeved green shirt Mulder had worn the day before and a  
shitty light jacket of Neill's, his F.B.I. badge hanging from a   
dog-tag chain around his neck. 

The rain continued, pattering on Renahan's jacket, on the wall,  
dotting his glasses. He kept his eyes on the house.

From his right, Neill was moving along behind the wall, crouched down  
so that his movements were hidden from anyone who might be looking  
from the house. He'd been looking at the structure from a dozen yards  
down, looking to see if there were any entrances in the back. 

Skinner had said he was a townsman who'd been helping him on the case.  
He hadn't told Manny Greaves, the head of the Scotland Yard  
contingent, Neill's name. Renahan hadn't breathed a word about it,  
either.

"What did you see?" Skinner asked. He kept his voice low, though they  
were far enough from the house that it would take a gunshot for  
anyone to know there anyone - much less 40 Anyones - there.

"There's a back door all right, and a stable set far off the back.  
Some gardens on the grounds, it looks like." Neill licked his lips.  
He looked as nervous as Skinner felt. 

Skinner nodded and relayed the information into the walkie-talkie,  
Greaves giving a bored "affirmative" to the news. 

"What are you planning?" Neill asked. 

Skinner scowled. "Well, Greaves wants to be a fucking hero and get  
people up on the roof. I think he's been watching too many movies  
where the SWAT team heads into everyone's bedrooms with their nuts  
tied up with rope and glass breaking everywhere."

Renahan snickered. "Too right."

Skinner continued. "But I told him I don't see any sign of weapons or  
anything overtly threatening. From what they could find on her at  
M-1, Anna Simms Collin is nothing but an 89-year-old widow who has a  
shitload of money and enough property to start her own   
country. The medical information they found on her from NHS says she's  
wheelchair- bound. I don't see any reason to go swinging in there like  
a bunch of apes." 

"Is that all she is?" Neill said, his eyebrows climbing into his short  
bangs. "A little old lady who's driven to Mass on Sundays? Let's not  
lose our heads, Mr. Skinner." 

"And let's not turn into a bunch of fucking paranoids either," Skinner  
shot back, talking through his teeth. "The one who's been doing all  
this in the States flying the Friendly Skies over South Buttfuck,  
Arkansas as we speak. I'm thinking this is the person signing   
the checks. I'm not going in there with my gun blazing like we're in  
an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie."

"I have to agree with Mr. Neill," Renahan said, leaning up. "This  
isn't any time for looking like we're prancing around like a bunch of  
poofs. We don't know who or what could be in that house, Mr. Skinner.  
But I wager that Mrs. Collins isn't as innocent or unprotected as  
that old house makes her look. I'd wager everything I've got." 

Skinner watched Neill look over at Renahan with a cross between  
gratitude and surprise, this being, in Skinner's memory, the first  
time the two had agreed on anything yet. 

"What do you two recommend then?" he asked. "Whatever it is, I want to  
do it, and quick. Between the way the underground rumor mill runs  
around here and this goddamned rain, I'd rather go soon than late." 

Renahan looked at Neill. "The three of us up front. The armed force  
behind."

Neill nodded, the two seeming to come to some understanding.

"The front of what?" Skinner asked. His trigger finger was itching.  
"The front of the house?"

"Aye," Neill said, looking from Renahan to Skinner's face.

"You mean go up and ring the fucking doorbell?" Skinner asked. 

"Yep," Renahan said, smiling. He seemed pleased.

"And say what exactly?" Skinner asked. 

Renahan chuffed. "We don't say much of anything. We tell her she's  
under arrest and we get her out of there. As fast and as gently as we  
can manage it. The way we do this is going to determine how many of  
us live long enough to take afternoon tea." 

"Now you *are* being paranoid," Skinner scoffed.

"I don't think so, Mr. Skinner," Neill said, looking toward the house.  
"The majority of the worst things I saw in the IRA, the Path...Curran  
and Fagan and that whole lot...it all started in this house from what  
Shea said. The worst of it, the personal things...it all   
came from here. If it were John Fagan in that house, how would you  
proceed?" 

Skinner thought about that, relented. "With armor plating on my ass,"  
he admitted. 

Neill nodded, and Renahan pushed himself up a bit from the wall, his  
feet under him. 

"Let's do it, Mr. Skinner," he said, looking at Skinner. "I've been  
waiting my whole bloody life for this." He turned to Neill. 

"Let's get it done."

**

11:35 a.m.

 

Skinner wondered what the three of them must look, Renahan looking for  
all the world like he'd been sleeping under a bridge, his face up  
toward the rain; Neill walking a couple of steps behind them like a  
ghost who'd rather be haunting anywhere else; and Skinner   
himself leading them up the circular drive to the house with his gun  
drawn, his badge out, and enough mud and grass on him to make it look  
like he'd tumbled end-over-end through the archway at the road and  
right up the place. 

He was watching the windows, their gauzy white curtains still and  
closed as eyelids. He'd seen no movement from the house, no sound, as  
they approached, no sound around them, in fact, but the rain. 

Even the Scotland Yard tactical officers, the Irish C-T, didn't make a  
sound as they pressed against the gates and trees behind them, moving  
up a bit as the three of them neared the stone steps. Skinner heard  
the occasional tussle of feet on the gravel, the sound   
of Kevlar pressing quick against something being used for cover, and  
that was it.

"Spooky," he said under his breath. 

"Aye," Neill agreed. Renahan said nothing, and Skinner quickened his  
pace, going up the steps two at a time. 

The door was immense, a Celtic cross carved into its face. The  
doorbell was a ornate gold button as large as a fist. 

Skinner looked at the other two, who nodded, and reached out, pressing  
the bell with his thumb. 

They heard the heavy sound of the chime inside, and waited. 

And waited some more.

"She knows we've come," Neill said softly.

"How do you know?" Skinner said. His heart had started playing Zepplin  
in his chest. "There might just not be anyone home."

"No, he's right," Renahan said, his voice just above a whisper.  
"There'd be a butler or maid, even if Collin wasn't home. A house  
like this never has nobody at home." 

Skinner looked at the door. "So you think she's on the run?"

He watched the two look at each other, and Neill shook his head. 

"Try the door."

Skinner did as Neill said, reaching for the enormous knob, and as he  
touched it the door pushed open with an ancient creak. 

The door wasn't closed at all, Skinner realized. 

"Come on in and take off your skin and rattle around in your bones,"  
Renahan said under his breath, and Skinner shushed him, his gun  
raised. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for the small walkie-talkie,  
pressed the button on the side.

"It looks like we were expected," he said into the mouthpiece, barely  
audible, addressing all the men in their headsets. "We're going in."

As he released the button, and a tiny voice leaked from the speaker.  
"Right behind," Greaves said, and an "aye" followed the sound -- it  
was Sheen, the commander of the Irish C-T.

Skinner nodded toward the door and stepped inside, Renahan and Neill  
following. 

They stepped into a giant entrance foyer of stone as old as the  
barrier walls, a huge stone staircase in front of him going up to a  
landing for a second floor, and a third above that. The walls were  
hung with what looked like medieval tapestries, red and gold, and   
paintings that were big as picture windows themselves. 

He wanted to make some snide comment about it all, but frankly he was  
impressed. The people who lived in this house knew something about  
history. The family had clearly lived through most of it inside the  
walls of this house.

"Lovely," Neill whispered beside him, echoing his thoughts. It was  
hard not to be both intimidated and impressed. 

The house was silent, except...

Music. There was music playing from one of the upper floors. Skinner  
could hear the sound of a fiddle in it, a guitar beneath. 

He pointed toward the staircase with the barrel of his gun, nodding,  
and started up the steps. 

On the second floor landing he noticed that the places where oil lamps  
had set in the wall in some previous age were still there, now set in  
with dim electric lights. On the third floor landing, on which  
started a thick, beautiful rug, he saw more of them, the lights'   
wires running along the stone just above his feet. 

He could hear the teams' boots squeaking far below them now, the  
clamor of equipment. He hesitated a moment with Neill and Renahan  
until he heard his walkie-talkie hiss that the first floor was  
secure, no one there.

The music was coming from the end of the hallway, a large door cracked  
open, a fire - the source of the smoke they'd seen outside -  
crackling in the fireplace in the room beyond. 

"Fucking "Danny Boy," Renahan whispered from beside him, and Skinner  
listened for a beat. 

Renahan was right, and Skinner's lip quirked. It had to be a joke. 

"Careful," Neill breathed. "Careful now." 

The walkie-talkie buzzed again. Second floor secure. No one home.

The three of them started down the hall, the rug making the approach  
soundless, the whole place - save the music - quiet as a grave. 

They'd reached the door when a woman's voice reached through the  
door:

"Come in, gentlemen." 

Skinner's heart was somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple at the  
sound. The woman's voice sounded like a parrot's, cracked and somehow  
inhuman and too frail. Neill's face looked like Skinner imagined his  
own did, and even Renahan's eyes were wide as moons. 

He pushed the door and the three of them stepped inside the too-hot  
room. 

Antique furniture gathered around a fireplace six feet high. Chairs  
hunkered around the room with no one in them. A silver tea service on  
a cart.

And beside the cart, a woman in a black dress, her hair a shock of  
white, in an electric wheelchair. It whined as she turned to face  
them at the opening of the door.

She looked at them, her face a pleasant, almost welcoming smile. Were  
it not for the fact that she looked like she'd been in a tomb for 10  
years, Skinner might have been tempted to smile back.

"Mrs. Collin?" he said. He didn't lower his gun as he stopped a few  
feet from the woman, Neill and Renahan taking up places on either  
side of him. 

"Yes," the woman said, nodding. She had a teacup in one hand, and the  
other had moved from the control stick for the chair to a black box  
covered with buttons beside it. She was stroking the buttons like  
cat.

"Anna Simms Collin?" 

The woman nodded again patiently. 

"Yes," she said more slowly, as though Skinner wouldn't understand. 

Skinner looked around the room. "Are you alone here, Mrs. Collin?" he  
asked, and the woman nodded again.

"Yes."

The entire bleacher section of Skinner's head that was assigned to  
wave red flags started up en masse now, the hair coming up on the  
back of his neck. 

"Mrs. Collin, my name is--"

"Walter Skinner," she interrupted, putting the teacup down on the cart  
beside the sugar dish. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. And Mr.  
Renahan, formerly of Scotland Yard." 

Her smile vanished as she looked to Skinner's right. 

"And you have no idea how it disappoints me to see you here, Eamon  
Neill." 

Neill had grown very still. 

The music was coming from a record player twirling a '45. As it  
reached the paper of its label the arm rose and jerked itself  
backward, settled down on the edge of the vinyl with a   
scrape again. 

"Mr. Neill can tell you, Mr. Skinner," Collin wheezed, "that it's not  
our way to go into custody. Especially not a woman of my stature and  
advanced age." 

The music was whirring out of the four-inch speaker, the song  
maddeningly scratched and sentimental. 

"We're not going to make it out of here," Neill said. 

Skinner turned to look at him, at the look on his face. His arm came  
up and he was pointing, and Skinner followed his finger to Anna Simms  
Collin's hand, the row of buttons, her finger choosing one as Skinner  
looked.

Skinner's eyes bulged. Everything he'd eaten for a week was suddenly  
surrounded with water and rushing South.

He fumbled for his walkie-talkie. 

"Get everyone out of the house!" he called into it. "Get everyone  
out!" He was moving back as he said it, following Neill, who had  
already started toward the door, tripping over a chair as he ran. 

"Too late," Collin said, and her finger pressed down with a "snick."

The electric lights all buzzed, growing too bright. The bulb in the  
lamp by the door blew apart with a crash. 

Something like thunder started rolling from below them, and Skinner  
grabbed Neill by the collar, hauled him up.

"Get out!" he screamed above the growing noise. "Go on! Get out!"

But Neill had stopped, looking back the way they'd come.

At Renahan. Standing not five feet from Anna Simms Collin, the two of  
them looking at each other like statues, frozen in their place.

"Renahan!" Skinner shouted. "What the fuck--?"

The house shook around them, another sound rocking from the lower  
floors. He could hear glass breaking, men shouting beneath him.  
Someone was yelling "fire," and someone else screamed. The floor  
bucked and Skinner was knocked off his feet, plaster and stone coming  
from the ceiling in a cloud of dust.

"RENAHAN!" 

It was Neill who'd shouted it, Neill who moved through the debris as  
it fell, Neill who grabbed Renahan by the arm and jerked him out of  
the way as the chimney above the fireplace gave way, an explosion  
rocking them all again and the floor falling away, flame   
shooting from the fireplace, flame reaching out like a hand and  
pulling Anna Simms Collin down into the chasm the explosion left. 

Then Neill and Renahan were moving, hauling Skinner up. He felt their  
hands on his shoulders, though he couldn't take his eyes off the  
woman - her dress and hair on fire - as she tumbled away. 

"MOVE MOVE!" Skinner shouted.

The floor was disappearing as the three of them sped down the hallway,  
rounding the corner to the steps, giant segments of the ceiling  
crashing down around them. Skinner pushed Neill in front of him,  
Neill's hand on Renahan, all three of them falling onto the   
second landing. 

The next explosion was so loud that if he'd hadn't been gasping for  
breath the shock would have cracked out his clenched teeth. The  
ceiling began to fall.

Skinner felt himself falling down the second flight, sliding down. He  
heard a scream and looked up just in time to see a stone the size of  
a chair hit Neill, pinning his leg.

Renahan had just managed to roll out of the way beside him, though he  
was rolling, his jacket on fire. He was peeling out of it with  
inhuman speed. 

Seeing this, Skinner halted his slide and tried to climb, though fire  
was coming from the hallways beside the two men now, surging out.

"I'm coming!" he shouted, coughing as the landing choked with heat and  
smoke.

"No, go!" Renahan yelled back. "Go!" And he reached over, grabbed  
Neill and dragged him from beneath the stone. He pushed Neill down  
the landing toward Skinner, who caught him enough to halt his slide.  
Then Renahan was beside him, the two of them hauling Neill up.  
Skinner was vaguely aware of blood on his own face.

"Move move move..."

Skinner chanted it, the door in sight, men running toward it, men on  
fire, men dragging other men. The three of them hit the stone  
landing, the tapestries aflame, and Skinner threw himself toward the  
doorway, hearing the house coming down all around him. He   
threw himself toward the light...

Someone grabbed him, a man in black and Kevlar. He heard the word  
"fuck." 

Then he felt rain on his face. He felt the ground hard on his face,  
heard a sound like the heavens coming down. 

He heard Renahan laughing, and after a moment, Neill joining in.

Then he heard nothing. Nothing at all. 

******

ON APPROACH TO ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE  
MARYLAND  
2:30 p.m.

 

The skies had been clear since the cargo plane had broken below the  
cloud cover, and as he craned his neck to look through the  
portal-shaped window next to the cargo door, Mulder looked, for the  
first time in what felt like too long, down on the Capitol Beltway's   
Inner and Outer Loops teaming with traffic, at the plane's shadow  
moving below on the ground, and at the beginning of Spring beginning  
to touch the city's fringes with green.

By the time he felt the landing gear groan down, his heart had picked  
up speed and his heel was bouncing off the floor in a staccato rhythm  
indicative of stress. He needed to move and move quickly, the flight  
having seemed interminable. His ears were ringing from the engine  
sound.

By the time the plane touched down without a jolt onto the runway, he  
was taking off the shoulder strap, his hands squeezing his kneecaps.

As the cargo door opened, he was taking the steps before the gangway  
had touched the blacktop.

Rosen was waiting with a couple of agents in a dress shirt and black  
pants and a tie blown back. His usually impeccably neat hair was a  
wind disaster. 

"Agent Mulder," he called, and he did not extend his hand toward  
Mulder but rather toward a ragtop Jeep with extra seats. Mulder met  
his eyes and then looked away, tucking his tall frame into the  
vehicle as Rosen set himself in the passenger seat with his usual   
efficient ease. The other agents folded in next to Mulder, their faces  
shielded from the mid-day light with glasses the color of oil.

"Go," Mulder heard him call over the cargo plane's engines powering  
down, the Jeep bolting across the tarmac. Mulder could see where they  
were headed - a fairly small jet with the words "United States of  
America" on the side in a bold, all-cap Serif font.

"We're getting no word from the Hosteen property," Rosen called.  
Somehow the man could still sound official and formal when he was  
yelling over jet engine noise. "We think the lines have been cut."

"Jesus H. Christ," Mulder spat, shaking his head.

Rosen continued as though he didn't hear. "The agents from Phoenix are  
holding at the airport in Farmington while we await tribal consent to  
enter the grounds."

Mulder clenched his jaw, looking away. 

"It's a delicate situation, Agent Mulder, as I've said." 

Mulder didn't say what came into his head, but the look he gave Rosen  
swore for him just as effectively. He saw a vein come up in Rosen's  
temple. 

"The two Tribal Police?" he snapped as the Jeep stopped with a jolt,  
the agents piling out and Mulder and Rosen bending at the waist as  
the jet's engines started their shrill prep. 

"Nothing from them yet. They're coming up from Tohatchi, a town to the  
south..."

Mulder stopped listening. He pulled a few steps ahead and went up the  
gangway, taking the steps two at a time, ducking to clear the doorway  
into the cool cabin lined with agents. He moved away from Rosen, who  
was still speaking, toward an empty seat in the back. 

Another space to cross, he thought, looking out the window. More hours  
to pass.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen said, standing in the aisle next to his seat.  
Mulder turned his eyes from where they'd been burning a hole in the  
tarmac and up toward Rosen's angry face.

"Sir?" he said. He'd said "fuck" with less venom in his time.

"I just told you Walter Skinner's been taken to a hospital in  
Belfast," he said. "Or does that not matter to you at all?" 

Mulder blanched. "What...?"

"He and Eamon Neill and Ed Renahan took a contingent of agents to  
Antrim to the Collin Estate. They found Anna Simms Collin there -  
alone, it would seem - and the place wired up through its electrical  
system with enough TNT to blow the place to the Pearly   
Gates. Five agents - Irish and British - were killed when the house  
went up. And Anna Simms Collin is dead."

Mulder closed his eyes. Five more. Five more families with someone  
ripped away.

"Skinner and the others?" he said, opening them again. The plane was  
taxiing, Rosen holding onto the bulkhead above Mulder's seat. 

"Neill lost a leg below the knee. Renahan, his spleen. Skinner's  
banged up pretty badly but he'll be all right in a couple of days." 

Mulder nodded as the plane stopped, angled its nose toward the  
quickening and started to move. 

Rosen moved slowly toward a seat, his voice carrying over the engines  
as they built and built. 

"A great many of us are putting ourselves on the line here as we think  
of Agent Scully and your baby, Agent Mulder," he said. "I don't think  
it's too much to ask that you think of us, as well."

Mulder looked out the window, avoiding the glances from the agents  
around him. Something in him relented, though it was hard to swallow  
the ire. 

"I will," Mulder said, the agents looking away. 

Rosen nodded, sat down beside Gil Jackson from ATF, and the plane left  
the ground. 

 

*****

NEAR THE CROSSROADS TO THE HOSTEEN PROPERTY  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
2:50 p.m.

 

Kyle Jenks looked at Toya Millston from the passenger seat of their  
patrol car, the bladed fan whirring on the dash, the radio buzzing  
with a private conversation between the dispatcher in Shiprock, a  
woman named Bess, and Ella, the one in Sanostee, they'd been   
listening to since lunch.

"I like her voice," Toya said, smiling beneath his mirrored glasses,  
the ones their lieutenant made fun of for looking too stereotypical  
and white.

"You like every woman's voice," Jenks replied, but he smiled as he  
said it so that Toya smiled back. 

"What do you know, eh?" the big man replied. "Toya" meant "Bull" and  
Millston more than earned the name. "Twenty-two years old and you  
don't nothin' about women, do you then? You can tell a lot by a  
voice." 

"Oh yeah?" Jenks said. "What's this one like? This Bess?"

Toya pursed his lips, turning the final turn at the sign toward Two  
Grey Hills. "Hmm..." he said. "I'm thinking she's tall and has dark  
hair and eyes, and skin the color of pecans..."

Jenks laughed. "Man, you should go on television. Start your own show.  
The Psychic Indian Network. Next thing you know you'll tell me it  
might rain." He pointed to the gathering clouds on the horizon, and  
Toya roared his big laugh. 

They drove a bit more, and finally reached a crossroads. "Looks like  
we're coming up on the place," Toya said, indicating the dead-end off  
in the distance, a choice to turn left or right.

"What do you reckon these women have done?" Jenks asked. 

"Hell if I know," Millston replied, slowing the patrol car as they  
approached. "Though what two white women are doing staying in an  
Elder's place..."

Lieutenant Hopps hadn't said much when he'd sent them on the milk run  
north, up to Two Grey Hills where, as near as they could figure,  
nothing had ever happened to anyone and no cops hung out. Go pick up  
two white women staying at the Hosteen place. 

"What for?" Toya had asked. His gut was getting a little big for his  
chocolate-brown uniform shirt, and his arms looked like tree trunks.

"I don't know," Hopps replied sourly. "It's come from the Tribal  
Leadership, but they won't tell me what it's all about. Watch  
yourself just in case. Whole thing's strange."

Toya, the ranking officer of the two of them, made a show of looking  
wide-eyed and going for the buck knife he carried in front of his  
service revolver at his belt. 

"Oh yeah. Two Grey Hills...we'll watch ourselves, right Jenk?"

Now they were stopping at the turning place, looking at a billboard  
off to the right for Smiley's Gas, "Three miles to the left" and  
never closed. 

Beneath the billboard's chintzy supports, Jenks could see the black  
half-circles of a small car's tires.

"Someone's hid their car back behind there," he said, pointing, and  
Toya leaned forward to look. 

"Yea," he said. "Looks like that." He seemed to consider, leaning  
back. 

"Let's have a look," he said, and pulled the car across the T of the  
adjoining road, over onto the scrubby brush and sand beyond. 

He stopped the car behind the American mid-size from Ugly Duck Rentals  
in Farmington, and the two of them got out. 

"Nobody home," Jenks said, looking at the car's driver's seat. 

Toya was moving slowly toward the car, and Jenks reached down and  
unsnapped the strap from the butt of his revolver, even though Toya  
wasn't moving slow like he did when he thought something felt out of  
sorts. He walked all the way up the car's back window, peered inside,  
moved around the driver's side, looking in the windows.

Jenks came up to the trunk, looking around. 

"Smells like ammonia," he said, leaning close to the trunk. "You smell  
it?" 

Toya was looking down at his feet at something brown at his feet.

"Cow shit," he said, sniffing. 

Now Toya was unsnapping the strap on his gun, looking around at the  
desert. 

"Odd," he said, and Jenks nodded, looking around, as well. He caught  
sight of a shape moving off in the distance, coming from the  
direction they had been heading when they stopped. From where the  
Hosteen place was supposed to be, a mile or so away. 

"Maybe he can tell us what's what," Toya said, and they waited as the  
figure approached. 

He was a smiling young man with a colored backpack, yellow and green,  
and big enough to have him out for a week. His face was red and he  
waved as he got closer, jeans and black boots like jumpboots, a  
T-shirt stained with sweat. 

"Hi, officers," he said as he came close to the car. "I'm sorry. Was I  
not supposed to park there?"

His accent was bumpkinish, Jenks thought, the guy's smile open and  
vaguely dense. He guessed the guy wasn't the sharpest stick in the  
fire from the look on his face.

"No, not really," Toya said. He usually did all the talking and Jenks  
let him at this. " You know you're on private land?"

The man came up to the car, shouldering out of the huge backpack. It  
was crushed in in some places, clearly nearly empty. Jenks could tell  
by the way he swung it with such ease that it hardly weighed a thing.  
The man went to fumbling with his keys in the pack's top   
flap, pulled out the rental key.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll just go ahead and be on my way then. I  
didn't mean any harm. It's just really pretty out here."

Jenks looked around, and Toya did, as well. Nothing for miles but  
scrub-brush and tan sand. Flat. Nothing to see.

 

"Most people like Chaco or Shiprock," Toya said, glancing at Jenks.  
"But yeah, this is... nice." 

Something was screwy, Jenks thought. Screwy on screwy, and Toya knew  
it, too. He let Millston take the lead on what to do next.

The man had the door open and he was putting the backpack inside. Toya  
was coming around the hood slowly, casually, and Jenks stayed near  
the back. 

"Can I see some ID from you, sir?" Toya said, a few feet away now, and  
the man finished settling his things and stood, looking perplexed. 

"What for?" he said, and he did look genuinely confused now, like he  
didn't know what an ID was.

"Well, I'm just wondering what you're doing out here with nothing but  
private houses around, going around on foot carrying an empty frame  
pack." Toya took a couple more steps, and Jenks closed in, his hand  
on his belt. 

"And your car smells like fertilizer and chemicals," Jenks added to  
get the man to look his way. "What can you tell us about that?" 

The man did look his way now, and Jenks felt his mouth go dry.

Gone was the vacant look in the blue eyes, gone the gaping mouth and  
blank face. The man looking back at him now was someone else  
entirely, someone he didn't want to face.

In an instant the man had turned and had the buck knife out of its  
sheath, the blade flashing as it whipped up toward Toya's throat.  
Jenks saw the slash like a huge, obscene smile open up at his  
friend's neck. 

As Toya fell, Jenks drew his weapon, but he knew it was too late. 

He only saw the man's arm move in an arc, impossibly hard and just as  
fast. He heard something whistling in air as he aimed his weapon,  
then something cold and final thump into his chest. 

**

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
3:16 p.m.

 

Though Paul Granger loved the feeling of the sun coming through the  
windows, slanting in that way light only seemed to be able to in the  
desert and falling on his bare back, and though he loved the quiet of  
the ranch - Victor and Sarah asleep and all the men gone,   
resting from their night - right now he could really only concentrate  
on Robin beneath him, on the pleasure of their lovemaking that was  
ebbing inside him and ebbing across her face. 

He could only concentrate on the way his heart was surging against the  
cage of his chest, how the pain was gone, how he somehow felt more  
alive than he'd felt in so long he could barely remember what it felt  
like to feel alive, and to not be in grief or afraid.

"Oh God," Robin breathed against the side of his face, sweat slicking  
both of them. He was balancing on his arms on either side of her  
head, her braids splayed out on the worn pillowcase, and she was  
crying. 

She breathed something that sounded like "I love you," and something  
like "praise be."

When he'd returned with Victor, both of them covered with sore  
scratches and stinking of the bat's black bodies that reeked of  
ammonia, he'd told Robin what he could recall of what had happened,  
what Victor had told him, the name.

"The Blessing Way," he said, and Robin looked at him as though he was  
insane. 

"What I want to know," she said, dabbing at a cut across his face, a  
series of claws' grazes that stung as she touched. "Is why the hell I  
couldn't come with you? If it's because I'm a woman, I--"

Granger shook his head. "You wouldn't have believed it if they'd  
brought you," he interrupted.

"What is this? Indian Tinkerbell?" Robin snapped, and he shied away as  
her hand slipped. "I have to believe or--"

"No," he said, looking at her seriously. "You didn't. But I did." 

She stopped, meeting his dark eyes with hers. "And do you, Paul? Do  
you believe?" Her bravado had vanished like smoke. There was  
something desperate in her face.

He nodded. "Yes. I can't begin to explain it, but I know that it's  
right." 

And he'd moved to show her how he knew. 

Now, he rolled off of her, taking up his place beside her on the bed.  
She curled into the crook of his arm, her hand pillowed on his  
shoulder, the shoulder where the scars - like a map showing high  
relief - had been, and where they weren't anymore. 

"Sleep," he said, kissing her forehead. "You can sleep..."

She nodded, drowsing already. His chest heaved an even, deep breath,  
his eyes beginning to close.

"Paul," she whispered. 

"Yes?" he replied, just as soft.

"I do believe," she breathed, and he smiled and fell asleep.

**

3:35 p.m.

 

In Mae's house, Frank Music was looking domestic as Scully entered the  
house, standing at the stove warming up something that smelled like  
apples while Katherine banged on her high chair tray at his back.

Albert Hosteen had driven her and Bo down after coming to her bedroom  
where she'd been laying since they'd returned from the hospital. He'd  
been sitting in the den watching Animal Planet, some show on osprey  
on the Chesapeake Bay, and she'd lain there listening to it,  
pretending, as he drifted down the hall and back to look in on her,  
that she was asleep.

Finally, she heard his recliner creak again and his footsteps, closed  
her eyes against the light that was forcing its way through the  
closed curtains, and his gaze. 

"I know you are not asleep," he said quietly.

"No," she whispered, hoarse. She had a blanket up to her chin and she  
turned her head so that it covered her lips. She felt impossibly  
small beneath the blanket, as though she were vanishing into the  
blanket's folds. 

"You should talk to your friend," he said. "To Mae down at Victor's.  
That makes me feel better sometimes. Makes both of you feel better."  
He paused. "Did Agent Mulder write you back?" 

She nodded, but she didn't want to talk about the email she'd  
received. Something about it had troubled her, the curtness of it,  
its tone.

(I'm on my way.)

She opened her eyes and blinked. 

"He's on his way," she parroted to Hosteen, and he seemed to sense  
something bothering her. 

"Hmm." He pushed the door open a bit more and came in, kneeling down  
beside her mattress to find her boots beneath the bed's swaybacked  
frame. Bo, curled into a comma on the rope rug by the window, raised  
his head and whined. 

"My telephone is out," Hosteen said. "It happens often in the spring  
after too much rain. I need to speak to Victor. Come. You and Bo  
should ride along."

There was no arguing with him. She pushed the cover back and put her  
legs over the side as though the movement caused her pain. 

Now Mr. Hosteen had taken Bo and gone to see Victor, and Scully was  
smiling at Agent Music, holding Katherine's warm, soft hand, glad  
that she'd come.

"You look at home, Agent Music," she said, and her voice cracked from  
fatigue. 

He turned his head and smiled, pointed to the pot with the wooden  
spoon. "Home on the range," he replied, and winked. She rolled her  
eyes.

"Where's Mae?" she asked. "And tell me quickly before you feel the  
urge to pun again." 

He laughed, and she welcomed the sound. 

"She's in the back with Sean," he said, and he sounded pleased. "Go  
back and see." 

Scully looked toward the back and she could hear soft noises coming  
from the second bedroom, the small one Mulder had slept in alone for  
all those weeks. A few steps down the bare hallway and she peeked  
around the doorway. 

Mae was on the floor, sitting leaned against Sean's bed, and Sean was  
sitting between her legs, using her body as a chair back, a book in  
his hands. He was reading, and as Mae looked up at Scully, she  
smiled. Her eyes were rimmed with red. 

Happy tears, Scully realized. Finally someone had something good to  
cry about...

"'Suddenly, one day, they came upon a stranger,'" Sean read, the words  
stilted, as though he were trying on a new voice. "'At first Crow and  
Weasel didn't know who it was, though they thought it might be  
Mouse...'"

Scully smiled as she listened to him, as she looked at the shine of  
cream on the burns on his face. His voice was familiar and so lovely  
to listen to. Something about it gave her hope and respite and  
something like relief. She closed her eyes and listened to him speak.

"'We come in peace,' said Weasel. 'Good!' said Mouse. 'I'm a peaceful  
man.' 'We are traveling north through these woods,' said Crow. 'I am  
going west,' said Mouse. 'I am on a vision quest...'" 

Listened...listened...

Then it began.

(A man...a young man in a backpack moving behind the barn...)

(Mae and Frank running...Mae and Frank and Katherine running...Mae on  
fire...everything behind them on fire...the horses were screaming...)

She gasped and opened her eyes. Bile rose in her throat.

"Dana?" she heard Mae say. "What is it?"

(Albert Hosteen pushing her from the house..."Go!" he was shouting.  
She looked at him and everything behind him on fire...)

"Dana?!"

She staggered down the hallway toward the bedroom, choking in air. She  
was going to throw up. The smell of burning hair...

She felt hands close around her upper arms like vises, and a huge,  
too-hard shake. 

"STOP IT!" Mae was shouting. "You have to stop it before it's too  
late. Come on, Dana, stop what you're seeing--"

Scully's eyes snapped from the flames, from the vision and its  
screaming, its smell and its pain.

"What?" Mae was saying, her face inches from Scully's. She was holding  
Scully up with her arms. "Tell me. What? What?"

Scully's chest was heaving. "Everything was on fire," she whispered.  
She could see Sean in the doorway. He didn't look afraid, but she  
lowered her voice just the same. "The ranch...the barn..." She looked  
at Mae. "You. Mr. Hosteen." 

Mae's eyes widened. "Here? Was it here that was on fire?"

Scully nodded. "There was a man," she said. She had lost her voice. "I  
saw him moving around the barn in my mind. Then everything was on  
fire... Mae, he's here. He's here."

Mae kept a hand on Scully as she went into the bedroom, pulling her  
along. She reached for the phone on the nightstand, put it to her  
ear. 

Her face turned white. 

"It's dead," she said, and Scully looked to the window, the hall. 

"Mae--" 

But Mae was dragging her back to the hallway where Sean was standing,  
his small fists balled.

"Sean," she said. "Go get Victor and Mr. Granger," she said, and Sean  
took off like a shot. "Frank!" she yelled down the hallway toward the  
kitchen. 

Scully could hear Music drop the spoon and his footsteps coming near.

"We've got to get out of here," Scully rasped, and Mae was nodding. 

"Yes," she said.

"Now, Mae," Scully said, tears coming. "We've got to run."

 

**

THE DESERT  
4:12 p.m.

 

Albert Hosteen had stopped the caravan of the two pickups about a mile  
from the ranch, up over a rise where the road had taken them to a  
place overlooking the ranch. He was standing there with Victor, their  
shoulders nearly touching, their hands in their pockets, a   
dozen feet from the pickups, both looking out over their land. 

Scully looked at them from the passenger window of Hosteen's pickup.  
Granger had gotten out of the truck's bed, half-shielding Scully from  
the edge, holding tight to her hand. Her face trailed tears, but she  
didn't make a sound.

In the truckbed, Robin sat, her face a mask of anger, Sara Whistler at  
her side. They were both looking at the tiny shapes of the buildings  
of Victor Hosteen's ranch, Sara worrying Bo's black ear as the dog  
began to pant.

Beside them, in Victor's truck, Mae held onto Sean. Frank Music was  
holding Katherine, the baby squalling faintly at the bumpy, fast  
ride. He bounced her absently, his eyes on the edge. 

"Forgive me," Scully whispered.

Far below them, all of the horses were free, run off by the men.  
They'd driven them and the sheep and the rest of the animals away as  
quickly as they could manage, the Hosteen's entire life and  
livelihood scattered on the open desert like seeds.

They waited. Two minutes, then three. 

Scully pulled in a breath, her eyes seeing something down below the  
others could not yet see, and Granger gripped down on her hand.

Far below them, the deafening sound. 

The ranch lit up in plumes of orange and yellow with a tearing that  
flew off the mountains' craggy faces, the echo carried all around.  
The flames and debris went up toward the sky in columns of black  
smoke that billowed like storm clouds in the air. 

A few seconds behind, another explosion rocked through the mountains,  
Albert Hosteen's house disappearing into ruin and flame.

Victor turned away from it, his face toward the ground. 

"Son of a bitch..." he breathed. "Son of a *bitch*..."

Albert Hosteen turned to face them all. No one, save Katherine, had  
made a sound. 

"Now," he said, determination - and anger - in his voice. "Follow  
me."

 

*****

OVER TULSA, OKLAHOMA  
4:45 p.m.

 

He'd fought it all the way across the pond from Belfast, his body  
jangled and wired and his worry laying on him like a too-heavy cloak  
for a hot season. But somewhere over Arkansas, Fox Mulder had finally  
fallen asleep, his forehead against the window where the cold air of  
altitude had painted the window on the plane's side with delicate  
shapes of ice. 

He didn't hear the three cell phones begin ringing simultaneously -  
Rosen's, Jackson's and Agent Fulstein from the Anti-Terrorism Special  
Task. 

He didn't hear Jackson talking to Washington about reports on CNN  
about a massive explosion in New Mexico, with every regional agent on  
the way. He didn't hear Fulstein telling the folks at D.C. to go  
ahead and fax - the plane - the information on Christopher   
Collin they'd just received from the Irish Special Forces. 

He didn't hear the conversation between Rosen and Ashkii Hok'ee, the  
head of the Navajo Tribal Council giving blanket permission for  
agents to enter the reservation and go to the site of the blasts as  
fast as they could manage, or the apology and acceptance of   
responsibility the old man offered at the "regrettable delay." 

He didn't see Rosen come down the aisle toward him with his face ashen  
and gray, the usually unflappable Director gnawing on his lip, his  
hands gripping the seat at the end of Mulder's row with enough force  
to rip. 

He didn't see Rosen turn and head back to his seat, having decided to  
let the man have a couple more hours of sleep before he exploded with  
anguish and grief there in the plane where he could do nothing. 

A few more hours of a life where his wife and baby were still alive.

 

*******

THE KNIGHT'S INN  
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 7  
4:45 a.m.

Christie Collin sat on the edge of the bed smoking a Marlboro Red, the  
cheap mattress sagging under his slight weight, the corners of the  
flat sheet tucked under the mattress' corners pulling up. The  
mattress was covered in plastic. He'd listened to it crumple all   
night.

He was naked, his legs splayed and his elbows on his thin knees. Smoke  
curled up from the cigarette in a gray line that spread into the air,  
caught the window unit's fan and disappeared like a ghost. 

"Fuck me," Bridget said from behind him. She'd made no sound on the  
bed since the light had started to seer the thick drapes, the room  
taking on a bluish light. 

"No," he said, not looking at her. He was looking at the huge suitcase  
he'd brought from New York, the compounds inside packed with coffee  
grounds that he could smell from the bed. 

"Why not?" she asked. Her voice had taken on its hiss. "You don't  
think I'm pretty enough anymore, do you now?" He could hear her lips  
slide across teeth as she grinned.

"Just not in the mood," he offered, and listened to her laugh. 

The box from Radio Shack was at his feet, the receipt with yesterday  
afternoon's time and date taped to its side. "In case you need to  
return it," the clerk had said, and smiled. 

On the night table, the small police scanner's lights ran from one  
edge to the other, a row of fast-moving light. The small speaker had  
been crackling all night, local police talking to State Police, State  
Police talking to ATF. Helicopters were buzzing all over   
Farmington, and he'd listened the entire night to the sounds of sirens  
echoing down the empty streets, heading southwest to Two Grey Hills.

It had been quieter since around 2:00 a.m. on the scanner, mostly  
troopers talking back and forth about personal things. One trooper  
who'd been in the Gulf had talked for a bit about what he imagined  
was used on the ranch. 

The man had a good nose and a good eye, Christie'd thought, lying  
there. He'd been right. 

Christie knew Mulder was there. A trooper had talked about "some Fed  
storming around screaming at everyone," "some man there looking for  
his wife." 

"Ain't gonna find her in that mess," crackled out a trooper going off  
duty in response. "Not unless he's got a pair of tweezers. He'd have  
to bury her in a matchbox." 

"But I want it," Bridget said from behind him, and he reached up and  
touched the signal dial, something to do with his hands. He didn't  
reply.

"Don't you want me, Christie?" 

His cigarette had gone to ash, the cinder burning into the filter and  
giving off a stink. He stubbed it out in the ashtray, and finally  
turned to look at Bridget's face.

Her white eyes started back at him, her skin gone rotted and flaking  
off. Her head showed through her hair, most it fallen out. He could  
see the greenish skin around her breasts, her nipples black as tar.  
She pushed the blanket down and he could see the fetid rot of her   
sex. 

"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "No, I don't." 

The phone rang its shrill, chintzy ring. Two rings. Outside call. 

"Yeah," he said, holding up a finger to Bridget, who'd begun to speak.

"Christie, we're in a bad way." 

Seamus. Not her. 

Why not? Why not a call that things were finally finished? Why not a  
promise of a plane ticket to come back home? 

"Yeah?" was all he could think to say. 

"Aye," Seamus said. "The Feds found the house in Antrim, lad." He  
paused. "I'm afraid your grandmother's dead." 

He didn't move, didn't breathe. He looked around the room and nothing  
seemed quite right. 

Bridget began to laugh behind him, sounding nothing like a woman.  
Nothing like anything on earth. 

"You there, Christie?" Seamus asked. "We're doing what we can to get  
you out, but they know who you--" 

Christie heard the voice faintly as his arm, seeming independent of  
the rest of him, reached out to hang up the phone with a click. 

The scanner puffed out static and an excited man's voice came  
through.

"Jessie?" it called. 

"Here, Ray," the dispatcher replied.

"You're not going to believe this, but there was no one home when the  
Hosteen place went up. The cadaver dogs, the Feds, Forensics...a few  
livestock but that's it. No bodies. Repeat, no bodies. They're  
getting choppers and planes out in the desert looking. They   
think they're hiding somewhere east..."

They couldn't have known, he thought. His chest began to heave in  
faster breaths. He'd seen Scully asleep through the window, the old  
man watching some show on TV. He'd seen Mae Curran and some agent  
with a gun on his belt laughing with a baby and a boy he'd tried not  
to see. He'd seen the darkie agent and his girl fucking through a  
crack in the curtains, and the younger Indian and his girl asleep. 

"They were there," he insisted. "I saw them. They were there." 

"Time to get you dressed," Bridget said from behind him, her reeking  
hand on his bare back. "Let's get you dressed in something special,  
my love."

She cooed it, sounding sweet. He turned to look at her, quirked a  
smile at the one on her face. 

All I have left...he thought. All I have...

"Come on, love," Bridget whispered. "I know just what you should wear  
for going out again." And she leaned forward to give him a deep and  
frozen kiss.

 

*****

THE DESERT  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
5:55 a.m.

 

Like Hosteen, Ghost had always moved slowly and like an old man when  
Mulder had seen him. The horse never seemed in a particular hurry to  
get anywhere, as though he were deep in some sort of moving  
meditation as he put one hoof in front of the other with   
Hosteen on his back. Mulder had always imagined him too old to move  
quickly, an elderly horse that the elderly Hosteen kept out of  
fondness and habit.

But as he'd long suspected about Albert Hosteen, Ghost was proving to  
not quite be as he seemed. 

The sun was rising as one giant eye, deep orange, the color of fire,  
the light bleeding across the horizon and finally lighting up the  
deep tracks Mulder'd been following with a flashlight and desperate  
instinct. The walkie-talkie he'd clipped to the waist of his jeans   
was crackling with voices, barely audible as he kept his eyes on the  
tracks.

Beneath him, Ghost was running, his hard gallup so smooth he barely  
seemed to touch the ground. They were skimming along one side of the  
deep ruts of pickup tires that dug into the sand, the ranch far  
behind them, and only Rosen's voice at his waist to remind   
him of it, that and the persistent smell of charred wood and ruin  
clinging to him like hands. 

Mulder pressed his feet more firmly in the stirrups, squeezed the  
horse's gray sides as Ghost angled around a small cluster of  
sagebrush, darting left then returning right. Mulder could hear the  
animal's breath moving in and out like an engine, his hooves   
tapping out a sure, steady beat. 

"Come on," Mulder said to him. "Good boy...keep going...come on..."

The horse's ears flicked back to listen, and though Mulder figured it  
his imagination, the horse's pace seemed to quickened just the same.

The tracks led off in a direction he'd never been in, and he'd already  
gone much deeper into the desert than he'd ever been, into the  
foothills of the mountains, up inclines more steep than he felt  
entirely comfortable climbing on a horse going at such a speed. The   
tracks had angled down again and they were heading for a flatter  
section, and Mulder was happy for the change. 

"Goddamnit, Agent Mulder, I want you to answer me..." 

Rosen's voice broke through the sounds of Ghost's running, and Mulder  
ignored Rosen again.

He'd ignored him first when Rosen had told him about a "cataclysmic"  
explosion at the Hosteen property but said it was "no guarantee"  
Scully and the others had been caught in the blast. Rosen had waited  
to tell him until he'd woken up as they touched the ground at   
Four Corners Regional Airport in Farmington. As the plane taxied to a  
stop, Rosen had said this to him, only a few seconds before they  
could deplane and get on their way. 

"cataclysmic...no guarantee..."

Mulder had gotten off the plane without saying a word, grief riding  
the too-large back of rage as he began to shake. He stood off to the  
side as the other agents disappeared behind doorslams into Government  
cars, their engines already running, the tears burning, his   
heart feeling as though his chest had been hollowed out.

He closed his eyes. "Scully, please..." he whispered. He turned his  
back on all of them, his trembling hand covering his mouth. 

"Agent Mulder," Rosen had said from behind him on the tarmac. "Let's  
try not to overreact. We don't know anything yet, and whether you  
believe it or not, the way this has been handled is perfectly  
correct. It would help everyone if you wouldn't follow your   
usual M.O. here and do or say something you'll later regret." 

Mulder dropped his hand to his side, it and its pair forming a fist. 

"Fuck you," he said, and before Rosen knew what was happening, Mulder  
had swung and punched him in the face. 

"Come on..." Mulder said, leaning up over the saddle's horn, his chest  
nearly touching Ghost's muscular neck. They'd hit the flat between  
two foothills and it was bright enough to see everything now in a  
dim, reddish light. 

"Come on," he said to Ghost. It was time for speed. 

When he'd seen Albert Hosteen's house - what was left of it - still  
burning in a chemically spurred rage, he could only think of he and  
Scully's lovemaking the morning he'd left, how the baby's shape  
curved beneath the blankets as though Scully were hiding   
a gift. He'd ignored Rosen the second time when Rosen had told  
everyone to keep back, the firemen from Farmington working with  
chemical foam to put the fire out, and Mulder had taken off toward  
something at the center of the rubble that looked like a burning   
human shape.

The firemen had stopped him, not Rosen, who knew enough now to keep  
away. 

He'd ignored him again as, after they'd worked through the night at  
Victor's ranch, when, standing at the edge of the crime scene teeming  
with agents, he'd shone a light and seen Ghost standing there in the  
circle of his Maglite's beam, a pony pressed against his side.

Ghost was wearing a saddle, a multicolored wool blanket beneath, the  
reins of his bitless bridle tied to the horn. The pony's back was  
bare, only a halter on its face. 

Mulder, covered in soot and ash, looked from Ghost and his saddle and  
bridle to the crime scene flooded with lights behind him. 

Everything was gone. Everything that had been on the ranch.

Mulder studied the horse again. Albert Hosteen rarely put a saddle on  
Ghost, and when he did, Mulder knew he never left it on him for long.  
The horse didn't care for it, and Hosteen said he didn't need it when  
he rode the horse, the same way he didn't need a bit.

Mulder looked from the ruin, his eyes narrowing, to Ghost again.

The horse stood very still, looking back. 

"Ghost," he called to the horse, and the horse came forward, stepping  
over rubble. The pony following like a child.

Mulder glanced at Rosen, who was in a knot of agents giving him the  
report of what they'd found at Mae's place. He looked over with his  
fat lip and his scowl.

Ghost stopped in front of Mulder and put his charcoal nose under  
Mulder's outstretched hand. Then Mulder looked at the saddle, at the  
saddlebags on its back. He opened a flap and reached inside.

There was a canteen full of water that he felt first. He pushed it  
aside, digging.

And drew out a long strip of leather, its tag glinting in the  
searchlights there in the dark like a star. 

"Bo. Fox Mulder/Dana Scully, 7912 Laurel Street, Arlington..."

He squeezed it, turned the Maglite toward where Ghost had been  
standing, the open desert beyond. 

Tracks. Going east. 

He grinned.

A foot in the stirrup and he swung his long leg over the saddle's  
cracked letter, the collar still in his hand. 

"Agent Mulder!" Rosen yelled as Mulder angled the horse toward the  
tracks and jammed his heels home. "Don't you dare--"

Ghost shot off into the darkness, picking up surprising speed. 

For a long time the pony tried to keep pace with them. He could hear  
the staccato tapping of its hooves close, then further, then further  
until the sound disappeared.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen's voice crackled from the speaker. "I know you  
can hear me."

"Right again," Mulder said, Ghost's mane windblown and brushing his  
face. 

"There were no bodies at the Hosteen place. Repeat. No human  
remains..."

Mulder smiled again. 

"We've got an surveillance plane up with heat-sensing equipment to see  
if we can find where they're hiding, but I wanted to warn you -  
they've seen a vehicle 12 miles east of the ranch. Ragtop Jeep.  
Driver only. And moving out. They've spotted you, too, and   
you're running parallel to him. Turn north...we're scrambling  
four-wheel-drive and choppers--"

Mulder's vision turned to flame.

He leaned back enough on the saddle to fumble with the walkie-talkie  
on his waist and press it to his face.

"He's mine," Mulder said into the mouthpiece. "Stay the fuck away." 

 

******

 

THE PUEBLO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
OUTSIDE TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
6:15 a.m.

 

Scully had not believed the sight of the pueblo when they'd reached it  
just before dark the previous night, the entire structure looking  
like something that had risen from a dream. She imagined, as they'd  
pulled the trucks off to the side where the vehicles would get a bit  
of camouflage from some squat, stubborn pines, that by the time the  
sun came up to show the place with its stark light, the place would  
vanish back into the rock, a temporary projection of Hosteen's memory  
or a desert mirage.

It had seemed even more surreal when she'd walked bookended by  
Granger and Victor into an open doorway on the ground level at the  
structure's left hand side and entered a room with its walls covered  
in names in red and black paint.

Kai.

Mansi.

Nantan.

Keel.

Victor.

Ata'halae.

Sean.

Scully looked at the names again. They were all written in children's  
handwriting, many of the letters inverted, others written with that  
care and awkwardness of kindergarteners with fat pencils in tiny  
hands. 

The place smelled of a firepit, and indeed, there was one in the  
middle of the floor that looked recently used. Logs cluttered around  
it in a circle for people to sit. 

"What is this place?" she asked, slowing even more than her  
already-unsteady, exhausted gait. 

"It's holy ground," Victor said. "A sacred place. We'll be safe here."  
He and Granger were exchanging glances, and Granger nodded. 

"Yes," Granger replied softly. "We will." 

Frank came in carrying a sleeping Sean, Mae a sleeping Katherine, the  
baby's crying finally spent. Sara Whistler came in behind with Robin,  
whose eyes were wide and her mouth open as she looked at the place.   
Albert Hosteen came in last with Bo, and Hosteen pulled down a blanket  
that had been caught on a nail above the doorway so that the red and  
black cloth covered the doorway. 

Scully was feeling the strain of the time in the truck, the bumping  
and twisting through the desert choking on dust. She felt as  
exhausted as she had when she'd first woken in the hospital, her back  
aching and her head too light. 

"I need to sit," she said quietly to Granger. Her head was swimming.  
"Let me sit..." 

"Okay," he said, and he tightened his grip on her arm, Victor moving  
with them as they moved toward the logs around the firepit. 

"No," Albert Hosteen said from behind them, and the three of them  
stopped, looked back. Hosteen was gesturing toward the far wall and  
speaking in Navajo to Sara and Victor, who nodded. 

"Just a little bit more, Dana," Victor said, nodding toward the back.  
"Grandfather wants us to go further, just to be safe." 

Scully nodded, but her legs weren't quite up for a lot more steps. She  
leaned heavily on Granger and Victor as they walked to the wall,  
lined with blankets the buckskin color of the sandstone wall. Scully  
could feel cool air much cooler than even the room she was in   
pushing through the blankets' sides. Sara came forward and lifted up  
the corner, pulled it back. 

There was an opening there and seemed to extend infinitely, back into  
a dark, cool space. There were steps cut into the ground going down  
from where Scully stood looking wide-eyed at the place. 

"Where...?" she said, and trailed off as the word echoed in open air.  
She looked up to see the cave's roof, but only darkness lay above. 

Victor had picked up a rag torch dipped in something that smelled  
faintly of grease and was lighting it with a Zippo from his jeans. As  
the flame flared to life, Scully could see the stairs going down into  
a cavernous space. There were benches below them, fire pits. What  
looked like wooden barrels and chests. 

Bo worked his way between their legs, looked up at Scully and whined.  
He padded down the stairs ahead of them as though he knew what lay  
behind them was something that he should be afraid of.

Granger and Victor were nearly carrying Scully by the time they  
reached the bottom, the two of them and Robin and Sara settling her  
down onto a pile of blankets where she'd almost instantly fallen  
asleep in the cave's perpetual night. 

She did not know if it was morning as she roused, the flames from a  
well-tended fire dancing in front of her eyes. She was on her side, a  
blanket between her knees, facing the firepit, Bo on the edge of the  
blanket at her feet. She could see the lumps of the others sleeping  
\-- Robin was tucked in against Granger's chest. Frank Music was  
closest to the stairs with his gun beside him, just a few feet from  
Victor, who had Sara beneath his arm. Only the top of Sean's head was  
visible from beneath the blanket over Mae's shoulder, his   
face tucked against her chest. She couldn't see Katherine, but figured  
her behind Mae, further from the fire. 

The only person she didn't see clustered around the fire was Albert  
Hosteen, and she leaned up slowly to look for him in the circle of  
the fire's light. 

There. She could make out his silhouette far on the cave's other side.  
He was sitting in front of a small fire of his own, his shirt off,  
his legs tucked beneath him. In the quiet she could hear a small sound  
like a low hum coming from his throat. 

She thought to rise and go to him, since the sound seemed vaguely  
distressed. She began to move, her hand on the baby's heel that was  
pressing above her navel. 

"Roll over, little girl," she whispered. "Roll--"

("Roll it with your hands," Mulder was saying. "See? That way you  
don't have to put so much flour on the roller. You can just get it  
all over your hands..."   
"Dad," a woman's voice said from Scully's left. "Don't encourage him.  
He's already a master at making a mess."

Scully was at the counter across from them and turned her attention to  
the turkey, its insides stuffed with walnuts and bread crumbs,  
cranberries and chives. Something was burning in the oven. 

"I told you he reminded me of your father," Scully said mischievously,  
reaching into the bowl again.

"Hey," Mulder said, mock wounded, and she turned to look at him. "Me  
and the little man are making masterpieces here! A mess? Scully, help  
me out here..."

Mulder's hair neatly cut but gone mostly grey. Mulder's face lined,  
glasses on his face. 

He looked distinguished, and the lines around his eyes showed much  
more laughter than age. 

The little dark-haired boy four or five -- beside Mulder with his  
back to Scully, laughed and planted a flour handprint on his  
grandfather's thigh. 

She gaped.

"Mom? You all right?")

The heel disappeared from beneath her hand, Rose moving inside. Scully  
swallowed, sweat slicking her face. She felt sick. Too hot... 

What she'd seen wasn't possible, she thought. Not possible...

Across the cave she looked at Hosteen's still form, the fire dancing  
before him, the fire going white as it grew even more hot. 

The noise grew in his throat, a sound that seemed to surround her,  
make her even more dizzy, her head more light.

Was it...? 

She lay her head back down on the blankets, closing her eyes against  
the tunnel forming in front of them, the only thing she could see.

Not possible...she thought again, shaking her head as tears crested.

Or could it be? 

 

*****

 

THE DESERT NEAR THE PUEBLO  
NAVAJO RESERVATION  
6:40 a.m.

 

Christie had seen the spotter plane moving low overhead, the  
unmistakable look of a government plane in any country. He'd heard  
the plane's engines above him even over the sound of the stolen Jeep's  
engine, and when he'd hung his head out the side to look over the rag  
top, the plane had banked sharply and veered away. 

In the seat beside him, Bridget hung onto the metal handles welded  
onto the Jeep's roll cage, her eyes staring forward, her hair  
stringing out in the breeze coming around the windscreen. 

"That's it then," he said to himself, biting his lip. He listened to  
the words, how they came out in that same polite way his father had  
taught him, how they betrayed what was in him the same as most of his  
life in this had the fear, the anger. Something that, like his  
grandmother's kisses, filled with revulsion and shame.

"Such a good boy," Bridget cooed, and then laughed her phlegmy laugh. 

They were out in open desert, heading toward an incline that would  
switchback up over a small mountain's rise. He checked the compass he  
carried from the time in the Rangers, the one inscribed in Gaelic from  
his sergeant with the words "Always True." 

"Shut the fuck up," he said. 

"What?" 

"You heard me," he said, taking the first of the rise, the Jeep going  
hard over something that would have unseated him if he hadn't been  
strapped in. The suspension groaned as they climbed. 

"You can't talk to me like that," Bridget said, something dangerous in  
her voice. 

"I can," Christie said, looking over at her again. Her jaw had dropped  
off, her upper teeth a horseshoe at the bottom of her face. 

He sensed she was looking past him, though, off the edge of a cliff  
side. Christie turned and followed her white eyes. 

A cloud of dust coming up behind a lone rider, coming fast on a horse  
the color of pale smoke. He could see the dark hair, the way the  
horse was angled toward the makeshift road the Jeep had taken up to  
cliff. 

"Mulder," he said.

"Kill him," Bridget replied, her voice coming without half her face.  
"There are tracks up here, fresh tracks. You'll find them. Find them  
and let him follow. Kill them all and we can go." 

But Christie took his foot off the gas, the Jeep slowing. 

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Bridget shrieked. 

He reached over and unclicked her seatbelt. 

"What I want to do," he said. "At last." 

He cut the wheel a hard left, going toward the cliff, and slammed down  
hard on the brakes, his right arm shoving her as hard as the Jeep  
nearly flipped. He wrenched the wheel and got it to a stop. 

One instant she was there and the next she wasn't. He heard her  
screaming all the way over the ledge. 

He unbuckled his seatbelt as the dust settled around the Jeep, stepped  
out into the bright morning light, stood for a long time looking up  
at it, his eyes closed, loving the warmth on his face. 

Warm enough to unzip the windbreaker he'd been wearing, the thin  
fabric pulled tight, though he did not wear a shirt beneath.

All around his torso, attached with duct tape, cylinders of explosives  
in two-inch plumbing pipe. They covered him in a vertical line in a  
ring from back to front. 

Christie reached into his pocket for the detonator a modified  
doorbell that was attached to the center canister with black and  
white wire. 

He could hear the horse coming closer now, the drumbeat of its gait. 

Slipping the doorbell into his hand, its button glowing from a huge  
detonation battery taped to his back, he stood looking at the desert  
below the cliff to wait. 

 

**

 

In the cave's darkness, Albert Hosteen sat, his eyes on the flames. 

He hummed a low sound in his throat, his eyes unblinking. 

Wait...

Wait...

 

**

 

By the time Mulder reached the steep road up to the cliff, Ghost's  
sides were covered with lather, white foam coming from the corners of  
the horse's mouth. 

"Just a little more, old man," he urged. "Come on..." 

Ghost stumbled a bit as he made it to the top of the rise, sharp rocks  
and brush cutting into his legs. Mulder winced as he was nearly  
toppled off the horse's back on one particularly bad stumble, not  
because he worried about the hitting the ground but because the horse  
seemed like he could be hurt. 

He'd lost sight of the Jeep and its dust trail, and he was worried the  
horse might not have enough left in him to catch up again. 

As he topped the rise to a cliff he'd seen from far in the distance,  
he pulled Ghost's frenetic gait up short, his eyes widening, his hand  
going for the Sig tucked in the back of his pants. 

The Jeep was there, stopped near the edge. And there was Christopher  
Collin, as his military records had called him, with his back to  
Mulder, though he had to have heard his approach. 

"Whoa," Mulder said, gave the reins a tug. Ghost threw back his head,  
skidding to a stop a few feet from the Jeep. 

Mulder sat for a moment in uncertainty, staring at Collin's still  
back. The younger man didn't turn, didn't speak, didn't acknowledge  
his presence at all.

Something was wrong. 

A trap?

Christopher Collins was a decorated veteran with the Irish Rangers, an  
explosives specialist of the highest degree. Black Ops, the  
equivalent of SEAL training, the whole nine yards. He'd been quiet and  
well liked, if a bit of a loner on his off-duty nights. The "perfect  
soldier," his records said. Mulder remembered staring at his picture  
the firm set of the young man's face -- military haircut trimmed to  
an inch. Serious eyes that looked sharp and clear and sane. 

"Christie," he called, and received no response. He climbed down off  
Ghost's back, his gun in front of him, pointing at Christie's back. 

**

The hum in Hosteen's throat grew louder, and he'd begun to sweat. 

Wait...

Wait...  
**

 

"Mr. Mulder," Christie said, still not turning from the view on the  
cliff. He said it as greeting, though his voice was flat.

Mulder took a step toward him, then two, and stopped. 

The picture of the young, intelligent face from the fax was replaced  
with other pictures now, other sounds. 

Scully's birthday, the Thai restaurant exploding around them. The  
open, smiling face of the young valet who'd taken his key. 

The picture of Joe Porter Mae had shown him in their house in  
Arlington, a man holding his daughter in her sunflower hat.

The woman he'd watched run from the Willard Hotel, her body in flame.

Scully in the hospital. Again and again and again...

"Turn around and face me, you pathetic, cowardly son-of-a-bitch." He  
held the gun up, the sight on the back of Christie's hand, and pulled  
back the hammer with a click. 

Christie didn't move. 

"COME ON!" Mulder roared, his voice tearing around the mountain like a  
clap of thunder. "What's the matter? Too much to face someone?  
Better to sneak around in the fucking shadows and wire up your toys   
than to look someone in the FACE? Do you know what you've done to  
Scully? What you've done to her LIFE?" 

The words that he heard in response were the last he'd ever thought he  
would hear. 

"I'm sorry." 

It threw him for a beat. 

"You sure as fuck are," Mulder spat, tightening his grip on the  
pistol. 

"What do you want to do with me?" Christie asked. He still had that  
same strange, flat voice. 

Mulder was thrown again for a beat. He'd expected Christie to resist.  
He'd expected to kill him in the midst of him fleeing or in  
self-defense. 

"Mr. Mulder, are you going to shoot me in the back?" 

Mulder hesitated, his eyes going from Collin to his gun and back. 

After a moment, he lowered the gun a bit. 

"No," Mulder said. "No, I'm not like you. I can't do something like  
that." 

 

**

Albert Hosteen's brow squinted down, his hand going to a clay bowl in  
front of him full of mustard-colored powder. He reached in and took a  
pinch of it and tossed it into the fire.

"Now..." he said in Navajo, the fire flaring red. 

"DOWN." 

**

Mulder reached into the pocket of his jacket, the FBI windbreaker he'd  
been given when he entered the Hosteen ranch. There were zip-ties in  
the pocket, large enough to cuff a man. 

"Turn around," he said, his fury waning though it hadn't been  
quenched. 

Christie put up his hands, the windbreaker he was wearing spreading  
out like wings. He put his hands on the back of his head, and said  
nothing. 

Something was wrong...wrong...

Now...

His head snapped around for the source of the sound. He could have  
heard it in his mind, but it seemed too real and too loud. 

"What the f-"

DOWN.

Something hit him from behind, like a giant hand pressing him to the  
ground. His mouth filled with sand.

He looked up just in time to see Christie Collin's hand move, a subtle  
movement of his finger and thumb, the rest of him still.

Still until he dissolved into a blossom of fire and smoke, blood and  
flesh and bone and sound.

Mulder covered his head with his arms as the heat wave washed over  
him, bits of things raining down. 

It grew eerily quiet after the last had settled, smoke blowing over  
Mulder with a strange, high note. 

Behind him he heard Ghost make a low sound in his throat and toe at  
the ground with his hoof. Mulder looked back him, the horse's body  
dotted with blood and debris, then back at the ground again, spitting  
out grit. 

"Christ Almighty..." he breathed to no one, looking at the spot where  
Christie Collin had stood, seeing only a black hole in the ground and  
the desert off the cliff instead.   
**

7:22 a.m.

"Hey." 

Scully roused herself again from the darkness, trying to place the  
voice.

The man in the wheelchair? 

Hosteen...

She opened her eyes. 

And looked straight into Mulder's eyes, his hand on her face. 

Her eyes widened, blinked, looking for evidence this was vision or  
dream, some nightmare of what would or would not be. 

It wasn't until she saw, over his shoulder, Albert Hosteen, Granger  
and Robin and Mae that she began to trust in what she saw. She looked  
further and saw the covering over the cave's mouth pulled back, and  
faint light coming through, the sound of chopper blades beating air  
not far away.

His hand went to her belly, cupping the baby, his thumb stroking her  
skin where his sweatshirt had slipped up in her sleep.

"I'm taking you home, Scully," he whispered, smiling, her name from  
him as real as a caress.

As sure as the hand moving through her hair as his tears brimmed.

As gentle as his hand on their daughter, his thumb circling the baby's  
fist. 

As warm and welcoming as his mouth as she leaned up, sobbing, for a  
desperate, grateful kiss. 

 

****


	6. Chapter 6

ST. BRIDGET'S HOSPITAL  
BELFAST  
NORTHERN IRELAND  
UNITED KINGDOM  
APRIL 9  
9:30 a.m.

 

Ed Renahan couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this long without  
a drink.

"Just slip some Glenfiddich into the bottle there," he said to the  
night nurse, a wide- hipped woman named Penny who looked like she  
should work at a fish & chip stand. 

"Right, Mr. Renahan," she said, rolling her eyes as she checked the  
flow on the drip. "You should be taking this as a time to appreciate  
the drying out we're giving you. You lost your spleen in this mess  
and the doctor said your liver was trying to hitch a ride on   
the way out." 

He smiled. "The rest of me's fit," he tried, and that only made her  
laugh.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Renahan," she replied, switching off the room light,  
leaving him in the overhead light of the bed that made him feel like  
he was under the gaze of the Lord. 

Now, morning, and he was wishing not just for a drink but for a fag,  
as well. He reckoned he could manage to get up and find one, too...if  
no one was looking...

A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. 

"Blessed Redeemer, whoever it is, tell me you've got a fag!" he  
called.

"I beg your pardon?" Walter Skinner replied, poking his head through  
the crack in the door, his face perplexed. 

Renahan laughed, even with the strange feeling that his belly was  
about to open like a mouth.

"A cigarette, Yank," he said. "A 'puff,' not a 'poof.'"

"Well, that's a relief," Skinner said, and entered the room. 

"You look like someone just rolled back the bloody stone on you,"  
Renahan noted, taking in Skinner's bandaged head, one eye covered  
with a patch. One hand and wrist was in a cast. 

"About how I feel, too," Skinner said, standing close to the bed. "How  
the hell are you?"

Renahan leaned his head back on the pillow, feeling the cool of the  
mattress against his shaven head. They'd had to stitch up a gash on  
one side, and he'd told them just to take all of it off and the  
beard instead of shaving a patch.

"Ready to get the fuck out of here," he said, though he only halfway  
meant what he said. 

No, he thought, his face falling. He didn't mean it at all. 

"What is it?" Skinner asked. 

Renahan shook his head. "It's nothing. Nothing at all." 

Skinner nodded. He took another step closer to the bed, his casted  
hand resting on the railing. His other he used to loot through his  
jacket pocket, a green jacket from the Irish Counterterrorism he  
seemed to have acquired along the way. He pulled out a handful of   
clippings from the newspaper several of them, from the looks of the  
stack. 

"I thought you'd want these for your collection," he said, and laid  
them in the space between Renahan's hip and the rail.

Renahan looked at them, the pictures of himself, of Skinner, of Neill.  
An old distinguished photo of the Collin family Christie and John  
and Anna Simms. A perfect portrait of death. 

"What will you do now?" Skinner asked, though Renahan couldn't get his  
eyes off the faces there in black and white. 

"Dunno," he said. His voice sounded tired and strange and far away.  
"My shark appears to be dead." 

"Your what?" 

Now Renahan did look up at him. "It's nothing," he said again.  
"Something Mr. Mulder said is all." 

Skinner nodded. "Well," he said, cleared his throat. "I'm on my way  
back to the States. There's about 4000 pieces of paperwork to fill  
out on this sitting on my desk, I'm sure. No use putting it off."

Renahan nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Skinner," he said softly. 

"For what?" Skinner said, chuckling. "Nearly getting your ass blown  
off?" 

Renahan shook his head. "For giving me a chance. No one's done that in  
a long while, you know. I appreciate you thinking I could be of some  
help."

"You were a great help," he said. "People know that now. Why don't you  
give *them* a chance?" 

Renahan said nothing, his eyes going to the clippings at his waist,  
and Skinner turned to walk away. 

"Mr. Skinner?" he called, and Skinner turned again, his eyebrows  
raised in question.

"You take these," Renahan said, picking up the pile with a bandaged  
hand and offering them to the other man. "Something to mark the  
time."

Skinner stepped back toward the bed and took the strips. "I don't  
think I'll ever forget what I've seen here," he said. "But I'll take  
them off your hands." 

He stuffed them in his pocket again, and offered his hand.

"Good luck to you, Renahan," he said.

"And you," Renahan replied, and they shook, then Skinner turned and  
walked away. 

He lay there for awhile, his mind on the dark walls of his flat, on  
the view of the ocean from the ledge in Ballycastle, the sea-salt air  
on his face. Though his body was battered, his mind was more alive  
than it had been in longer ago than he could recall. He was   
grateful for that. To Skinner. 

And to someone else he wanted to thank.

He fumbled for the phone and dialed the switchboard, an old woman's  
voice buzzing through the earpiece.

"Help you, sir." It was meant as a question but it came out flat from  
sheer rote. 

"Eamon Neill's room," he said. 

"I'll ring you through." 

A ring, then two. He realized on the third that might be being rude  
calling so soon. The man had lost a leg after all. Might need some  
time...

"Neill," a voice said as the line went through. 

Renahan opened his mouth, then realized he hadn't the slightest idea  
what he should say. 

"Renahan?" Neill called. 

"Yea," he replied. "Yea, it's me." He cleared his throat and shifted a  
bit on the mattress. "I...wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about your  
leg and all. Sorry for the trouble." 

Neill laughed. "I'd be laying downstairs waiting to have whiskey  
poured on my grave if you hadn't pulled me out from under that bit of  
roof," he said. 

Renahan chuffed. "Well you had to drag me out of the lair yourself, so  
I reckon we're square on that." 

Silence from Neill, then: "I'd say we are," Neill said quietly. "And  
even if we're not, let's say we are and be done with it."

Renahan looked up at the light above his head, the light shining  
bright. 

"All right," he said. 

"All right," Neill replied. "Get some rest." 

"You, too, Neill," Renahan said, and he hung up the phone.

 

*****

 

THE RUINS OF VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH  
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO  
APRIL 11  
11:15 a.m.

 

Inside the military tent loaned by the Feds, Albert Hosteen and Sean  
Curran were hidden among the horses they'd managed thus far to fetch,  
the light from the open side flaps showing dust dancing in the warm  
mid-day air.

"Hold his leg up," Hosteen said softly to Sean, steadying Ghost's  
cannon so that the boy could grasp it between his hands. "Gently now.  
Gently..."

Sean did as he was told, Ghost's leg swollen and gashed, the fetlock  
puffed out above his hoof. Hosteen smeared the area with salve,  
working it through the dapple-gray coat with his hands. 

"Will he be all right, Mr. Hosteen?" Sean asked. 

"Hm," Hosteen replied, reaching for the wrapping cloth he'd bought in  
Farmington when Sean and Mae and he had gone into town for breakfast  
and supplies for the day. "He did a hard thing. A very important  
thing. In time, yes, I believe he will be fine." 

He looked at Sean, at the boy's sunburned face and the clear blue of  
his eyes as Sean studied Ghost's leg, running his hand over the  
swollen places. 

"Time is good that way," he said, and Sean nodded. 

"Aye," he said, his voice sounding like his mind was far away. 

Hosteen took the blue wrap, held the end in place, began to wind it  
around and around Ghost's mottled leg. 

"There is something you wish to say to me," Hosteen said as he worked,  
Sean bent at the waist. "Something you want to ask." 

He stopped wrapping long enough to push the cooler on the other side  
of him over so that Sean could sit with Ghost's leg on his lap. 

"Yes," Sean said softly. He sounded very afraid. "I..." And he shook his  
head and bit his lip. 

Hosteen smiled faintly as he finished the first layer of wrap. "You  
wish to stay here. When your aunt leaves." 

Sean nodded, smoothing down a crimped edge. "Aye." 

Hosteen stopped what he was doing, put a hand near Sean's on the  
horse's leg. "Look at me," he said softly, and Sean did as he asked.  
Hosteen watched his face. 

"You would be an outsider here," he said softly. "A white among us.  
Some especially the young boys like yourself might not treat you  
with kindness or respect." 

Sean looked at him and swallowed. "How would it be different?" he  
asked, almost too softly to hear. "I...haven't belonged anywhere," and  
his eyes brimmed with tears. 

"Hm." Hosteen nodded. "It is a very hard life you are choosing." 

Sean shook his head. "Not when I think about where I've been." 

Hosteen looked at the boy's face, and nodded again.

"You may stay here as long as you wish."   
*

11:45 a.m.

 

"Mae..." 

Frank "Tunes" Music followed Mae Curran-Porter to the edge of the  
property, both of them covered in black tarry soot and ash. The baby  
was asleep with Sara Whistler minding her in one of the furnished  
trailers Rosen had scrambled from Farmington to shelter the Hosteen's  
while the contractors came in to rebuild.

The trailers were large and posh by the old house's standards  
("Dishwasher!" Whistler'd exclaimed on entering the place), but Mae  
wanted none of it. She wanted nothing of this place. 

"Try to look at it from Sean's point of view," Frank said, catching up  
to her again. "You're going to prison, for Christ's sake, and he  
knows that-"

"Six fucking months!" she said, spinning on him. "It's SIX FUCKING  
MONTHS and he wants to stay here forever from the sounds of it."

Frank stood in front of her, and she watched his face flush red. "I  
don't blame him for wanting someplace he knows he can count on some  
stability, Mae. Wouldn't you take that if it were offered to you?  
Especially at his age?"

"I'm his FAMILY!" she roared into his face, and she grew even more  
enraged as Frank laughed, shaking his head, his hands going to  
bracket his hips. "You do anything for your family where I come from!  
You don't leave them-"

"Yes, by all means let's run our lives by THAT, Mae! Look where that's  
gotten all of you up to this point." He started ticking off on his  
fingers. "Your brother James, Owen, your father--"

"It's not the same," she pleaded, the rage and hurt turning to tears.  
"I'm not like them, Frank, and you know that. You know..."

He stepped forward now, but didn't touch her. She was glad he knew  
better. Still. 

"I know. And on some level he knows, too. But I think, actually, some  
time away from you and you away from him would be good for you both.  
Let him come back to you when he wants to, you know? When he's ready  
to accept what you're offering him. What you've always offered. But  
for now, let him choose his place." 

Let him choose his place...

She thought about that word "choice" for a moment, the ranch where the  
others were working stinking with a chemical smell and burned things.

"You won't be able to return to Ireland," Director Rosen told her  
before he'd left the day before, after he told her where she'd been  
serving out her plea-bargained sentence, there at the table in Albert  
Hosteen's new but temporary house. "Both the Irish government and   
the British have barred you from returning again."

There was a smudge on the table from Katherine's breakfast, a smudge  
on the brand new wooded table's surface. She couldn't meet Rosen or  
Dana or Mulder's gazes, and worried it with her finger instead. 

"The children can go if you have someone to care for them," Rosen  
offered into her silence. 

"No," Mae said softly, "there's no one." 

No one...

She was tired of those words, tired of the grief that two words could  
hold, the empty white room of their single beats that she'd lived in  
for too long. 

She pushed the thought away, reached up, looking to the side and  
avoiding Frank's gaze. She wiped at her face. "I know you're right..."  
she said quietly. "He'd have nowhere to be...no place to stay.  
Katherine can stay with me, they said, but even that makes me ill,   
to think of her there in jail..." 

Frank chuffed softly. "The Federal minimum security facility at  
Quantico with a section for inmates with infants and toddlers -- is  
hardly Cell Block H," he said.

"A posh cage with a playpen is still a cage," she said glumly, and  
wiped her eyes again. 

She knew she shouldn't be even remotely upset at the bargain Rosen had  
struck on her behalf. It was far less than she deserved, and she felt  
suddenly ungrateful, especially to Frank, whom she knew had helped  
negotiate the length of the sentence and the place...

She narrowed her eyes. "Where do you live, Frank?" she asked.

He smiled shyly. "Nowhere special. Virginia. Outside Potomac Mills." 

She looked at him, at the smile on his face. She was annoyed by his  
attraction and his kindness. She resented the things that he'd done  
because they were things that she could not have done for herself. 

She detested the teenager in her who was smitten with the gold flecks  
in his eyes, his mischievous grin. 

She hated she knew, looking at him, she might love again.

"I imagine that's a long way from Quantico," she ventured, and she  
couldn't help but smile a bit through her anger, her sorrow, her  
relief.

"Oh yeah," he said, taking another step toward her, and grinned. "Four  
whole miles."

"All that way?" she asked. He smelled like soap and ash and rain.

"Oh yeah," he said. "It'll be a real hardship to come visit, you know,  
bring something good for you and the baby. New clothes. Toys. Maybe  
something sweet and good to eat."

 

** 

12:10 p.m.

"Can you hold onto it?" Victor Hosteen called, looking over at Robin a  
few feet on his right. She was holding up a split rail that he'd  
placed in the "X" of a support post, but the support was giving him a  
fit. 

"Yeah, I've got it," she said, though her voice was strained and  
clipped. It was getting hotter as April wore on, spring heading to  
summer and the desert starting to turn bright and more barren and  
hot, the greens soon to fade to buckskin and brown. 

Sweat was slicking her face, and she had a dark stain between her  
breasts. Victor smiled as he looked at her. She was strong, secure,  
and stubborn as a raven. Granger's perfect fit. 

He picked up a sledgehammer, a black railroad spike, and as Robin held  
the post with her long, dark arms. He hammered the spike through the  
place where the two supports joined, the echo going across the vast  
emptiness of his land, this place quieter than where the   
main house had been, where the earthmovers were taking what was left  
of his house away in the backs of Army dumptrucks to clear the land  
again. 

Robin would not look him in the face. 

"You're still angry with me for not taking you with us that day," he  
said, his words punctuated with the hammerfalls, her body jerking  
with each hit where the post jerked the rail nearly out of place. 

Robin said nothing, keeping her eyes where the hammer's head met the  
spike. Her mouth, though, had turned to a thin line. 

"Granger said he told you why," Victor continued. "But you're still  
angry."

"Yes," she said finally. 

The spike's head flush against the wood, Victor stood back, gestured  
to her to release the rail. It held. 

"Why?" he asked, taking off his cap for Oslo's Feed & Seed and wiping  
his brow. He was winded, and Robin was, too. 

Inside the sheep they'd managed to round up him and Keel and the  
rest of the men were bleating in their new pen, bumping against  
each other, gathering in clumps of dirty white and looking up at the  
two people, their eyes wide. 

"It's hard to explain," Robin said. 

"Try."

Robin looked out over the desert, blew out a breath. "Paul...Paul's not  
like you all, Victor. He's not a shaman or a sage or a magician. He  
comes from a simple woman and a hard-working, ordinary father. He's  
just an ordinary man."

Victor couldn't help but smile at that. "Sounds like that's what *you*  
need him to be."

"What do you know about him?" Robin snapped, wiping sweat from her  
cheek on her shirt sleeve. "I think I know him better than you do,  
Victor."

Victor put his arm on the top of the supports, leaned his chin on his  
forearm and stared her hard in the face.

"You do, yes," he said softly, his face devoid of its usual teasing  
and mirth. "But I've seen what he sees when he dreams, Robin. I know  
what he fears and wants and believes. I know his heart in a way that  
you cannot." 

She looked up, her eyes shining. "I know. But he's mine, Victor. You  
should have taken me with you. You had no right to keep me from what  
you saw that night."

Victor quirked a sad smile. "You'll see it all, Robin," he said. "If  
you want to, that is. You'll see everything he is if you'll trust in  
who he is. All of him. And if you believe what he tells you and what  
you see." 

She looked away, a tear running down her dark cheek that she swiped  
away. She nodded, still not looking him in the face.

"Thank you for what you've done for him," she said quietly. "I didn't  
say it before...and I do owe you that." 

Victor smiled, leaned back and replaced the battered cap. "You don't  
owe me a thing, Robin," he said kindly, then reached for a split  
rail, tilting it up on its end. 

"Feel like one more before we take a break and get out of this heat?"  
he asked, knowing she needed to be doing something with her hands. 

"One more," she said, hefting the wood and chancing a smile, though  
her voice was gruff. "Then lunch is on me." 

**

12:36 p.m.

 

Bo was panting, even in the shade of the one tree left near where the  
barn had been, though the trees was black and missing its leaves. 

Granger looked at him and sympathized. It was not a place to be  
covered in anything black, including his own skin. 

"It's hot as hell out here today," Granger ventured as he and Mulder  
sifted through the debris, picking out tools that looked like they  
could be salvageable from the pile of black ruins and charred beams.

"Summer comes early here," Mulder said, picking up a hammerhead, the  
black blade of a saw. "There'll still be some cool days off and on,  
but this is what it's like a lot." 

Mulder had taken his shirt off while he worked, his skin working on  
tan. His blue jeans were covered with soot, his boots smeared and  
dotted with ash. Scully had trimmed his hair herself, and it was  
short enough to have spiked a bit as he sweat. 

"Voice of experience?" Granger teased, pulling out something that  
looked like it used to be a table saw's vise, its wooden screw-handle  
burned off. 

Mulder laughed, standing and wiping sweat from his chest. "Yeah," he  
said, squinting at Granger. "I've spent a little bit of time in this  
area, you could say." 

Granger laughed, and Mulder did, as well, reaching for the canteen at  
his belt. He opened it, offered it to Granger, who drank and handed  
it back.

"How's Dana doing?" he asked as Mulder took long draughts, water  
dripping down. 

"She's good," Mulder replied, and wiped his mouth with the back of his  
hand. "Tired, but I think that's all of us at this point."

Granger nodded. "I'll say." 

Mulder looked down at the pile of tool parts they'd collected, his  
hands going to his hips where the band of a pair of boxers was  
showing above the jeans' waist.

"She's been on the phone this morning. Quantico." 

Granger nodded. "Things about Mae?" 

But Mulder shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "She's been hired to  
teach Forensic Pathology at the Academy. She'll start after she's  
been cleared to work by her doctor in D.C. and go up until she goes  
on Maternity Leave."

"She's leaving the X-Files?" Granger replied, agape. 

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "She'll consult, of course, but with  
the baby coming...we both think it's for the best."

Granger looked at him, trying to see if he looked disappointed or  
angry. He was smiling at Granger instead. 

And Granger immediately knew why, and smiled back.

"So," he said, clearing his throat importantly and picking up a shovel  
to lean on its handle, looking nonchalant. "Do you have any idea  
about her replacement down there in the basement, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder looked down, his lips pursed importantly. "Why yes, Mr.  
Granger, I have one or two." 

"Well," Granger said, pulling himself to his full height, which still  
meant that Mulder dwarfed by him five inches or more. "I just happen  
to have recently had a few experiences that I think make me...uniquely  
qualified for a position in your division."

"So I've heard," Mulder said, and the two looked at each other and  
grinned. 

Granger reached out and put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder  
did the same. They gave each other a shake. 

"Have your people call my people," Mulder said as their hands dropped.

"Yes," Granger said. "We'll do lunch." 

 

**

1:00 p.m.

 

Scully sat in a plastic Adirondack chair Mulder had picked up for her  
at Home Depot in Farmington, a plastic stepstool by Rubbermaid tucked  
in front of it for her to prop up her swollen legs and feet. There  
was a blanket hitched up on poles over her head, giving her a   
wide swatch of shade in the too-bright sunlight. 

Behind her, the brand-new screen door of Albert Hosteen's temporary  
double-wide opened without a creak, and Hosteen himself stepped  
outside, pushing the corner of a grilled cheese sandwich into his  
mouth. 

"You have not eaten," Hosteen said softly. 

"No," Scully replied, her eyes on something far in the distance,  
something she couldn't yet see. "I'm not very hungry, Mr. Hosteen,  
but I'll get something in a little while." 

"Hm," Hosteen said, standing next to her and chewing for a long beat.  
"Sara is making you eggs and dry toast. Some orange juice." 

Scully smiled, shook her head, and laughed. 

"I don't know what I'm going to do without you all to fuss over me,"  
she said. "You all are quite a force to be reckoned with, that's for  
sure."

Hosteen smiled. "So are you, Agent Scully. And I feel that you will do  
fine taking care of yourself once you've gotten the answers you are  
about to seek." 

Scully nodded, long ago giving up on being surprised at anything he  
knew or said. 

"Yes," she said. "I'll go as soon as I'm able. He's waiting for me."

Hosteen finished his sandwich, wiped the crumbs from his hands on his  
jeans. Then he moved to stand behind her, his hands going to her  
shoulders, resting there. 

"You will find many answers where you're going," he said softly, his  
hands warm through her shirt. "And make a decision that will change  
the rest of your life, and your baby's, and Mulder's." 

She nodded. "Yes." She'd sensed that, that the road she had been on  
was leveling, that she was coming to a crossroads that led to  
destinations she didn't know yet.

"You will know what to do," Hosteen said softly, and she reached up  
and touched his hand, gave it a squeeze. "And you will be able to do  
anything you choose. I have always believed that of you."

Scully smiled, gripping his hand. "Yes," she said, unable to look at  
him as tears brimmed. "And for that and so much more, Mr. Hosteen,  
you have my love and my thanks." 

 

*****

HOOVER BUILDING  
WASHINGTON, D.C.   
APRIL 21  
8:34 a.m.

 

It was all so surreal. 

There he was, Agent Fox Mulder once again, his charcoal suit cleaned  
and pressed and bagging a bit more than usual from weight he had  
lost, a maroon tie patterned with white flecks at his neck. He had  
his feet up on his desk, his leather work shoes feeling strange   
after what felt like months in boots. 

He looked around, taking it all in.

Glass cases filled with bits of rock, pieces of evidence deemed too  
strange for the F.B.I. Evidence Stores to keep. The clippings even  
more yellow on the walls, the files he hadn't put away gathering  
dust. The dim lights leaked through the perpetual night of the place.

He swung his legs down from the desk and swiveled to look at the wall  
behind. The pictures of saucers, cows dead in fields. The simian face  
of the body in Belle Fleur, Scully standing behind it, looking barely  
old enough to drive and pissed. 

And off to one side, the familiar pixilated blue of a bad photograph,  
the letters stark and large in the overhead light.

I WANT TO BELIEVE.

He smiled. 

He did, he thought to himself. Just not the same things that he had  
when he'd first put the poster up when he'd been hidden down here in  
the old copy room, the words back then the only prayer he knew. 

He heard footsteps on the stairs, the rustle of keys and paper bags,  
and turned toward the sound.

"Soh-ey," Granger said, coming in the doorway with a bag from  
Starbuck's in his teeth. He came forward with a cup of coffee in each  
hand, his keys dangling from his thumb and set them all down on the  
edge of Mulder's desk. 

"There was a line," he said, freeing up his mouth, "And I got off this  
morning a little late."

Mulder pointed to the giant cups. "What? The pot I make down here not  
good enough for you, Granger?" And Granger laughed.

"Dana warned me you don't clean the cups or the pot, and besides-" He  
nodded toward the poster and the general clutter of strange things.  
"-this place could use a little class." 

Mulder stood, reaching for the cup. "All right, Mr. No-Fat-Tall-Venti-  
Skinny-Latte-Two- Shot-Extra-Soy-"

Someone cleared his throat, and Mulder stopped in mid-sentence,  
Granger turning as they both looked toward the door. 

Jack Rosen stood in the doorway, Walter Skinner marred with healing  
cuts in his face and across his bald pate at his shoulder behind. 

"Mr. Granger," Rosen said, nodding to him, then leveled his eyes on  
Mulder. "Agent Mulder." 

"Good morning, sirs," Granger said, and Mulder was glad he spoke  
first. He didn't like the way Rosen was looking at him, though he  
couldn't blame the man. There was still a vague blue spot at the base  
of his jaw. 

Rosen walked in, Skinner looking at Mulder with a look he knew well. 

Watch your mouth, for Christ's sake, it said. Mulder didn't even have  
to hear him speak to hear the frustration and the curse. 

"Getting settled in to your new assignment, Mr. Granger?" Rosen asked,  
coming forward to stand near the desk, his hands behind his back. His  
eyes were on the poster behind Mulder, then his eyes flicked to  
Mulder's face. 

"Yes, sir," Granger replied. "Though I just got-"

"Mr. Granger, Mr. Skinner," Rosen interrupted, still staring at  
Mulder, "Would you two be so kind to step into the hall for a moment?  
And close the door behind." 

Mulder saw Granger look to Skinner uncertainly, but Skinner jerked his  
head toward the door, and the two men left. 

When the door had closed quietly behind them, Mulder returned his  
attention to Rosen's unreadable face. 

"Agent Mulder," he said quietly. 

"I'm sorry for striking you, sir," Mulder said. In New Mexico he'd  
still been so pissed at the clusterfuck of red tape even after  
Scully was safe that he'd simply avoided Rosen rather than say he  
regretted the punch. He'd been home with Scully since they returned,   
so he hadn't really had the chance. 

It was Scully who had told him to apologize, as soon as he could, and  
though he would have done it anyway, the seriousness of her tone and  
her face had sealed the decision that morning before he'd left. 

Rosen nodded. "I appreciate that apology, Mulder," he said, and he did  
seem pleased behind his mask. "I understand you were under a great  
deal of duress, and I'm willing to overlook your behavior during  
this...incident...because of the unique nature of the circumstances." 

Mulder nodded, his hands going behind his back. "Thank you, sir," he  
said. "I'll try not to let it happen again." 

Rosen's lip curled. "Thank you for not promising," he said. "Because  
that's one you are incapable of keeping." 

Then he stepped close to the desk. "But I will say this," and his eyes  
flared with rage. 

"Agent Mulder if you ever punch me again you'll have a hell of a lot  
more to worry about than a horse in your bed. AFTER I have your badge  
for it, and AFTER I've got you up on charges, I'll come back at you  
so hard you'll be wearing your ass for a fucking hat. Are   
we clear on that?"

Mulder looked at him and swallowed. "Clear, sir," he replied. 

Rosen nodded, and turned, going back to the door and opening it again.  
"Come in," he said, and Skinner and Granger filed in, both glancing  
from Rosen and Mulder to see evidence of what had been done or said.

"Break him in easy, Agent Mulder," Rosen called over his shoulder as  
he went out the door. "I leave it in you and Mr. Skinner's hands to  
keep things clean down here."

"Thank you, sir," Skinner said, standing by the door, cocking an  
eyebrow at Mulder.

"Don't ask," Mulder replied, and reached for his cup, took a drink. 

Granger went to the desk for his own coffee, perching on the corner of  
the desk. Mulder picked up the bag and started rifling through,  
coming out with a muffin the size of his fist. 

"You feeling all right?" he said to Skinner, taking a bite. Skinner  
was standing there with his hands on his hips, his jacket off, his  
shirt starched and pressed to within an inch of its life. 

"Yeah," Skinner said, shaking his head. "I felt better before I saw  
the two of you together and my stomach started to hurt."

Mulder laughed. "Why's that?"

"You two have already proven that trouble is right behind you," he  
said through his teeth. "I'm going to go up and start a stack of  
Incident Reports for this division. Just to get an head start." 

"Sir, we can't get in more trouble than Mulder did with Agent Scully,"  
Granger protested. "Could we?"

Skinner went for the door, and a fond, bitter laugh came up. "She kept  
him out of trouble, Mr. Granger, believe it or not." 

Walter Skinner held the knob, took one more look back. 

"God help me," he said, winked, and closed the door as he left. 

Granger took another sip of his coffee, and for a moment, as Granger  
looked at him, Mulder was reminded of the young man he'd met in  
Richmond, a man not much younger in years as experience, with that  
eager look of a kid in a toy store. 

"So...are going to start a case before you and Scully leave or do you  
want to just get me oriented so I can catch up on my reading while  
you're away?" 

Mulder looked down at the desk, the decision he'd come to over the  
days since his return to D.C. playing across his thoughts. "I've got  
something for you to read and start doing some thinking about, yeah,"  
he said, turning to the file cabinet behind and to his left. 

"All right," Granger said, putting down his coffee and reaching for  
the bag. "What's the case? Unexplained phenomena? U.F.Os? Crop  
circles..."

Mulder thumbed through the folders, zoning out Granger's list. 

Thumbing from A to F to H to L to M. 

"Samantha Mulder..." it said, the folder thick, the label faded from age  
and use.   
He pulled it out and held it in his hands. 

"No," he said softly, took in a deep breath, and turned.   
"Unexplained Death."

And he set the folder in Granger's hands. 

 

****

 

OFF THE COAST OF VANCOUVER ISLAND  
BRITISH COLUMBIA  
CANADA  
APRIL 23  
8:23 a.m.

 

The ferry from the coast of Vancouver Island to Denman Island was  
small, the weathered boat large enough to hold perhaps 20 cars and  
trucks carrying supplies to the tiny islands off the coast. The air  
was crisp and cool, and the water of the Pacific the deepest blue   
Scully had ever seen. 

They'd gotten off the prop plane from the main airport in Vancouver  
across the channel, and Scully had sat, her back aching from the  
travel, while Mulder gathered their suitcases around her in the  
one-room airport while he secured a Subaru Forester the only kind of  
car the rugged island rented at the counter near the back. 

As she waited, she kept her eyes on him, the curve of his back in his  
jacket, the way he shifted his weight from one Niked foot to the  
other as he spoke to the clerk. In her hand, the ferry schedule and a  
printout on Heliwell, the wooded park that gave way to cliffs on   
Hornby Island, just off the coast. 

When he'd returned with the key, he picked up their bags and leaned  
forward to give her a warm, soft kiss. 

"You all right?" he asked as he pulled his face away. 

She nodded. "Yes, thank you," she said, her hand on her belly, rubbing  
softly as though for luck. "I'm ready to go." 

She was wearing a black swing coat at the ferry's railing, watching  
the boat move closer to the first island's shore, tucked under  
Mulder's arm. They said nothing as the boat blew its horn, people  
going back to their cars. They simply followed behind. 

As they bumped onto the ramp at Denman, caught in a line of cars all  
following the signs that pointed them across the island to the ferry  
to Hornby the end of the line Mulder reached over and clicked on  
the radio, respectful of her need not to speak as they drove. 

She couldn't help but be a little frightened of what she'd find when  
they reached where they were headed. She could feel that Mulder was  
also filled with a feeling between concern and dread. His thumb was  
worrying the side of her hand. 

"It's going to be okay," he said softly, the radio playing something  
old and American and familiar in a way she couldn't name.

It was Mulder who recognized it first, reached for the volume control  
and laughed. 

"'...I'm crazy for feeling so lonely...I'm...crazy...crazy for feeling so  
blue...I knew...you'd love me as long as you wanted...and then you'd leave  
for somebody new..."

Scully closed her eyes and smiled, lifted his hand to her mouth,  
rubbing his knuckles against her lips. 

Across the island, they boarded the ferry for Hornby, the 15-minute  
trip spent this time inside the car rather than at the railing as  
they embraced, the minutes taken up this time in the language of the  
kiss. 

They disembarked and the cars pulled up a steep climb, Scully  
unfolding the map she'd printed out, telling Mulder to follow this  
road until they reached a market at the center of town. As they saw  
it some minutes later, she told him to turn left. 

Down a winding road that was canopied by trees. Past a fork in the  
road marked by a split tree, the sign pointing right toward Heliwell  
Park. 

Scully looked out the window as the road turned more narrow, houses  
tucked far off the road in the shadows of leaves. There were no other  
cars too early for the tourist season, still too cold, the island  
too remote. Everyone on Hornby was there was because they   
lived there during this, the dawning time of the living part of the  
year.

Then they turned a corner, and saw car after car after car lining the  
road, most of them rentals identical to their own. 

"Someone's having a party," Mulder said mildly, giving the parked cars  
a wide berth. 

Her brow creased down, and she pushed a long strand of hair back from  
where it had slipped. 

Cars and cars. Then a driveway going up on the right.

"Mulder," she said. "Slow down. I think-"

And as they passed the drive, she looked up and the house was there. 

Dark wood, almost black. Huge for the island or any other place. The  
stained glass windows were glinting both from the sun pushing through  
the arch of trees and from an inner light. 

The design was a strange spiral, multicolored and formed into a  
circle. It looked like two circles but when she looked at it she  
realized it was one unbroken line, turned in a pattern   
not like the one that stood for Infinity. 

"That's it," she said, and Mulder stopped, backed up, and went up the  
drive. 

There were no cars in front of the house, all of them clustered for a  
mile down the road below the house. She looked out the window at the  
design on the windows again as Mulder cut the engine and it died into  
silence. 

"Strange designs," he said, looking out her window at the windows.  
"But really beautiful." 

She nodded. "They look like...mobius strips," she said, looking at them.  
"They're continuous circles made by rotating a strip of paper 180  
degrees and connecting the ends."

There was a mathematical equation to it that she couldn't recall,  
though she tried for a moment. 

She tried until the huge wooden doors to the house opened and man  
stepped out onto the stone landing, a smile on his face. 

"Looks like someone knew we were coming," Mulder said quietly,  
unclipping his seatbelt. Scully did the same. Mulder got out and came  
around to her door, opened it, and helped her climb down from her  
seat. 

The man watched them, that same smile on his face. He wore a suit and  
a bowtie, his dark hair slicked back from his face. "Mr. Mulder, Ms.  
Scully. Welcome." 

They both turned and gaped. 

"Many questions, I know," the man said, putting a hand up to quiet  
Mulder before he could speak. "Mr. Strawn will explain everything, I  
promise. Please. Come in. We've been anxious to meet you both for  
quite some time." 

Scully looked at Mulder, who reached down and took her hand. The hair  
was up on the back of her neck. 

"It's okay," he said softly, squeezing her hand. "I think everything's  
the way it's supposed to be." 

She took in a breath, the man standing to the door's side with his arm  
toward them, gesturing them in, the wide smile still in place. 

"Okay," she said, and the two of them went up the steps slowly, past  
the man and into the house. 

They were standing in a foyer the size of one floor of their house, a  
set of closed double doors on the left and the right. They could hear  
voices many of them chattering behind the ones on the right. 

"My name is Hobbie," the man said. "I'm one of Mr. Strawn's  
assistants, his...butler, if you wish. May I take your coats before you  
go in?" 

"No, that's okay," Scully said, and Mulder, too, shook his head. 

"We're fine," he said, standing close to Scully so that their arms  
nearly touched. 

Hobbie nodded, unflapped. "As you wish," he said, " If you'll come  
with me then," and he went to the double doors and pushed. They swung  
in, and the chattering instantly stopped.

And both Mulder and Scully stood, stunned into silence as they faced  
the room the doors had hidden. 

It was the size of a small ballroom, ceilings that extended perhaps 20  
feet, rich wood the color of the house's outside. The walls were  
lined with sconces, the floor covered with oriental rugs that were  
priceless with design and age. 

And inside, perhaps 100 people were standing, all facing the door,  
their eyes kind and most with smiles on their faces. 

They were from all races, many in ceremonial dress. Men and women from  
India in saris flecked with golden thread. An entire group from some  
part of Africa, their clothes a riot of colors and jewelry adorned  
with feathers and shells around their necks. Men in suits,   
women in clothes of all sorts. Asian men and women in kimonos and  
robes. Monks in brown and orange and white. 

"Welcome to The Mobius Group," Hobbie said, standing beside them,  
touching Scully's back. "Please. Go in. I think you'll find some of  
the people you see...familiar?" He grinned. 

Scully gripped Mulder's hand and started to walk. 

"Pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Scully," a dark-skinned man said as  
she passed through the threshold. "Mr. Mulder," and he tilted his  
head in respect. 

"Hello," an Indian woman said from the other side as she went further,  
the crowd parting as they passed. "Welcome."

"So glad..."

"...looking well..."

"...very happy..."

And so it went. 

Finally, they reached the center of the room, the crowd continuing to  
part, and Scully pulled up short and pulled in a surprised breath. 

"Hello, Agent Scully." 

Albert Hosteen, Sara Whistler and Victor stood in ceremonial Navajo  
vestments, Hosteen looking at her with his chin up and the hint of a  
smile on his face. 

"Mr. Hosteen...?" Scully stammered. "You...?" 

"Victor?" Mulder got out, as stunned as she. "What are you doing  
here?"

Victor smiled, not looking as young or as nave here among the quiet,  
distinguished group. 

"Mr. Strawn will tell Dana," he said, and he and Albert Hosteen and  
Sara began to move to the side. "We'll fill you in while she's with  
him. But it's all all right." 

And as they stood aside, there he was. 

Black suit, a blanket across his thin legs. The wheelchair was old  
with a high back, and a man stood behind him to push him slowly into  
the space the Hosteen group had made. 

He looked more pleased to see them than any of the others, his frail  
looking hands reaching out toward them both. 

"Welcome to you both," he said, and Scully felt her knees going weak.

How long had she heard that voice speaking to her in her visions and  
dreams? It was as familiar to her as her father's had been. 

"My name is Walter Strawn," he said softly as Mulder reached out first  
to shake his hand. "I am the head of the Mobius Group and this is my  
home you and all the others have come all this way to gather in.  
Thank you for making the trip." 

He turned to Scully, but spoke to Mulder as he took her in, seeming to  
drink in the look of her face. 

"Mr. Mulder, if you'll be so kind as to remain here with Mr. Hosteen,  
I need to speak to Dana for some time alone." He smiled at Scully.  
"Just a slow walk for you, Dana," he said. "Out on the bluffs  
overlooking the sea. I know you have much to ask me and I have   
much to say." 

Mulder started to object, but Scully squeezed his hand. "It's all  
right, Mulder," she said quickly. "I'll go with him. It's okay."

She still had not told him about what she'd seen. And though she'd  
seen the horse's body in her dreams, she hadn't told him what she'd  
done what she was capable of doing again.

Victor came forward and put an arm around Mulder's shoulder. "Come on,  
Mulder," he said. "We'll fill you in while we all get something to  
eat." 

Mulder looked at Scully, his face a bit blanched, and she nodded. 

"It's okay," she said, letting go of his hand. "I'll be right back." 

**

10:42 a.m.

 

The cliffs at Heliwell were some of the most beautiful things Scully  
had ever seen. A path wound through the forest, a quiet man named  
Joseph pushing Strawn along it up to where the trees ended and the  
cliff opened up, covered with light green grass that looked   
like heath. The path curled along them, safely away from the edge  
where the Pacific moved in undulating waves to crash against the  
cliff's bottoms, the whole place lit by sunlight and caressed by a  
salty breeze. 

Several times Strawn asked if she was all right, if their pace was too  
quick or too steep. 

"No," she said each time. "No, I'm fine." 

Now, moving along the cliffs with her hands dug deep in her pockets,  
she looked out on the ocean, the seemingly limitless space. 

There was a bench set at a vista on a particularly high bluff, and  
Strawn instructed Joseph to take him there so that Scully could sit,  
and then to "leave them alone for a bit." 

Scully gathered her coat around her, though she wasn't cold as much as  
apprehensive. Though she'd just met Strawn, she felt she'd known him  
for years, but the circumstance was strange enough that she didn't  
quite know what to expect or say. 

Strawn sat beside her in his chair, close to the side of the bench  
where she sat. He tunneled his hands beneath the plaid blanket across  
his lap and began to speak.

"Let me tell who we are," he said softly. "I know that is the first  
thing you will ask." 

His tenses confused her, but she did not address it. She kept her eyes  
on the sea. "Yes."

"The Mobius Group is a collective of people from nearly every part of  
the world," he said. "We are people drawn together because of our  
unique ability to see things that others cannot see. We gather every  
year to discuss the things we've seen and put them to constructive  
purposes if we can, to avert things that we can, to help in places  
where our foresight gives us the ability to offer aid where others  
can or will not."

Scully nodded. "So the people in that room..." she began. 

"Yes," Strawn said, nodding. "They see similar things that you are  
able to see. They have seen each other over the course of their  
lives. They have seen me and they have all come here at some point to  
make their decision to join in our work or to receive help or advice   
on how to move forward with the rest of their lives."

""Their decision'?" Scully said. "What is there to decide? You say  
that as if there's a way to stop these things I'm seeing." She turned  
to look at him. "If that were possible, I would have stopped seeing  
them long ago."

He shook his head. "Some of what you see can be controlled, but not  
all of it, no. You will always have the ability you have, Dana. I'm  
sorry. I have watched you for two decades now and I know that it is  
the last thing you desire." His eyes were heavy and sad   
behind his glasses, his mouth turned down, his face a mask of regret.

"It is, yes," she said. "Especially when the things I see..."

"Yes," he finished for her. "Mulder's death in the shop. Your daughter  
there to witness. I have watched these things with you. I know it is  
difficult to bear."

"Difficult?" she said, finding the word not up to the task, but Strawn  
only smiled. "You call what I've seen merely 'difficult,' Mr.  
Strawn?"

But Strawn only nodded. "Yes. A friend of mine, Michael Lansing, who  
recently passed away, saw, all during the second World War, the faces  
of the people in Auschwitz," he said. "From his farm in Nebraska  
where his family grew corn. No one knew of the camps then, or so they  
said, and he did not understand the horrors he had seen."

Scully swallowed, feeling suddenly foolish. "I'm sorry," she said.  
"That was selfish of me to say."

"You do not know the stories of the others, the things they've had to  
see," Strawn said, putting a hand out to touch her sleeve. "Do not  
blame yourself for that." 

Scully looked away, then back again, replaying what he'd said. "Then  
what is there to decide if we have to see them?" she asked. 

"Oh, many things," Strawn continued. "Many things." He turned his gaze  
from the ocean to her face. "You have seen things which do not seem  
to be possible. Things that contradict."

Scully nodded, pulling her cold hands into her sleeves. The entire  
conversation gave her the creeps, though she was relieved to be  
having it. She was more than relieved. 

"Yes. I saw Mulder killed and then...and then I saw him alive when my  
daughter was older. A mother herself, with a dark-haired son." The  
latter memory made her smile, though the smile melted away. "One of  
them of is true, and the other can't be." 

"Yes and no," Strawn said. "That is a very black-and-white view,  
though it is the only one you could have at this juncture, I know." 

"They can't both be true," Scully tried again, confused. 

"No," Strawn said, nodding. "But then neither could be true. You  
simply do not know."

Her head was spinning, and she looked down. "I don't understand," she  
said. 

Strawn smiled. 

"You know something of time, Dana," he began. "You wrote a rather  
controversial paper on the topic, which, incidentally, I have read."  
He winked and went on. "What I ask you is to suspend those ideas and  
think of a metaphor instead. Think of a subway station far,   
far beneath a city teeming with life. Now picture the people from the  
city riding the escalator down to the station at certain appointed  
times, times when they are supposed to make certain decisions that  
will affect their lives, say. They wait for the train they know   
they should board, and when it comes, they get on and they ride  
away."

She nodded. "Go on." 

"That is the linear life that most people lead, Dana. They do not have  
the choice of the train they will board. They do not know the other  
trains can take them to another place. On each train that stops, as  
the doors open, they look into a scene from their life their   
next day, their wife. The plane they will ride. They go down and board  
that one train they can see and they ride away." 

Now he turned to look at her. "But you, Dana, you and everyone else in  
that room you saw Albert Hosteen, Agita Patel, Youssou N'Maga...you  
stay on the platform and watch the trains come and go all day." 

Scully felt it all click into place. "So what I'm seeing  
are...possibilities of things that can be. Not what will be."

Strawn shook his head. "You do see what will be. You simply do not  
have the ability to be able to tell the correct train in the comings  
and goings of the ones you see. But the real one stops, as well."

Scully stood slowly, her hand on the small of her back, and walked a  
few steps toward the sea. 

She understood now, and the weight of the year lifted off of her like  
a veil. 

"That's the decision I must make," she said, not facing him, the wind  
gently blowing her long hair back. "You can teach me to tell which  
one is real." 

"Yes." Strawn's voice was quiet. 

"But that's the only choice I have, isn't it?" She turned. "You can't  
make it stop. You can't take it away." 

He looked at her sadly. "No," he said. "Nothing can do that. Nothing."

She put a hand over her mouth, feeling tears coming on. "Would that  
give me comfort?" she asked, and her voice broke. "To know the future  
that way?"

Strawn shrugged. "Some it does, to know that all but a few things that  
they see are things that will never be. To some, no. It is a prison  
for them, to know and, in most cases, be helpless to change what they  
see. Michael Lansing could do nothing to stop the things he   
could see. But then Agita was able to save her mother and 300 others  
from boarding a plane. Michael chose, in the end, not to know, and  
Agita chose to see." 

He smiled faintly, and she could tell he knew a great deal of the pain  
she was feeling, the grief. 

"That is why I offer you the choice of what you would prefer, Dana. I  
offer my help in whatever path you would like to take." 

Scully touched the baby beneath her hand as Rose turned, her head  
pointing down. She stroked the cloth, considering. 

It was an offer of a lifetime, some part of her realized, awed. To  
know the future? To have the possibility to alter what she could see?

She stroked the baby again, thinking of the life she wanted Rose to  
have...the life she wished for Mulder. For herself.

"What did Mr. Hosteen choose?" she asked, staring down at her hand. 

Strawn smiled broadly. "Albert sits in the station all day," he said  
fondly. "But he does not care much for trains. He concentrates  
instead on the people waiting on the platform, and waits for them to  
choose what they may."

She quirked a smile. "So he knows all the possibilities. That's how he  
knows the things he does."

"But not what will happen. Yes." Strawn smiled kindly. "Victor and  
Sara are the same way. They tell us things they know of, but they do  
not know what information they give is real and which is not. Those  
of us who have chosen otherwise are the only ones who can tell."

"So everyone sees something different," Scully said, as if to  
herself.

"Yes," Strawn said. "Each according to his or her gift." 

She turned again and looked out onto the ocean, remembering something  
she'd read years ago in college. Some psychology class that dealt  
with myth. The ocean was the first of all symbols, Jung had  
theorized, the one that gave rise to all the rest. It was the first  
thing that humans had looked upon and been staggered by the mystery  
about, the surface hiding so much they could not fathom and would  
never understand. 

That was the way of things, she thought, staring at the deep blue of  
the cold, cold sea. It guarded its secrets beneath a thin surface of  
jet-black glass... 

"I do not want to know my baby's life before she lives it, Mr.  
Strawn," Scully said, her voice firm and strong. "I don't want to  
know Mulder's before he does, at least not and be sure what I know is  
true or real. I would not rob Rose or Mulder or myself of the chance   
to live this life as I believe it was meant to be. In mystery." 

Strawn looked at her, gave her a small smile. "Will you work with us  
as the Hosteen's do then, Dana? If I help you control what you see so  
that it does not overcome you? If I help you to have this...mystery?"

Scully smiled. "Of course," she said softly. "Of course I will."

"Then come," Strawn said, and held out his hand. "Come with me,  
Dana."

Joseph was returning from the edge of the trees. Scully watched him  
approaching, then looked at Strawn's frail outstretched hand. 

She went toward him the few steps between. She took his hand and held  
its warmth, tears on her face, while behind her the ocean glinted the  
sunlight, rolling toward them, timeless, with its surface like glass.

 

****

EPILOGUE

*******

 

7912 LAUREL STREET  
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA   
JULY 24  
1:02 a.m.

 

A pale full moon shining through the window to the bedroom, the orb  
huge and peering like a great eye in the star-shot night. The room  
was bathed in its gray light, the curtains open, light falling on  
Scully on the bed, curled on her side with her eyes on the window,   
her arm cradled around the moon of her belly. 

She had a restlessness tonight, her body taut and sore and, as it had  
been for all these months, waiting. 

Her back throbbed faintly, and she shifted her legs to ease the  
pressure, her belly pressing against the mattress a bit more firmly.  
Inside her, the baby slept, as still as Mulder behind her, his arm  
draped across her middle, his fingers on the light fabric of her  
T-shirt.

The pain did not diminish, and she shifted again, moved her head  
against the pillow to bend into a more defined question mark. 

Mulder's arm tightened around her waist, and she did not know if she'd  
woken him or if he hadn't been sleeping at all. He was as restless as  
she was now that her due date had come and gone two days before. 

"What can we do?" he whispered, and then his lips were on the whorl of  
her ear, his nose in her hair. 

Her body was suddenly humming with the feel of his mouth against her  
skin. His warm, slow breath sent a shiver up her, and she pushed her  
hips back against him once, twice. An instinct. 

He let out a short breath, surprised, and kissed her temple, lingering  
there. 

"Oh," he murmured, and slid his hand beneath the hem of her shirt, his  
hands smoothing over her tight skin to her heavy, sensitive breasts.  
She leaned her head back and kissed him, a hand going to the waist of  
his boxers.

"Yes," she whispered against his lips. "Please..."

And he moved to do what she asked of him. 

When they were finished, both of them drenched with sweat, their  
breathing heavy, his cheek against her temple, her hands holding one  
of his in front of her body, she chuckled, though the pain in her  
back was worse. 

"What's funny?" he murmured, but she could tell he was smiling, too,  
his bare body curved against her back. 

"I was just thinking," she began, kissed his hand, rubbing his  
knuckles against her lips. "That was just like our first time." 

He hummed his assent, remembering, then he chuckled, as well. "You  
mean the part about us making love with my arm and your leg in  
casts?" 

She laughed full-out now. "Exactly," she said. 

She kissed him again, their lips lingering. 

"That was one of the best nights of my life," he said as he pulled  
back an inch, chiding her. "Even if it was a little awkward." 

"Exactly," she said again, and he pushed his hand down, taking hers  
with it, and stroked the now-bare mound of her belly. The baby  
knocked a foot against their hands. 

"We woke her up," he said, and she gripped his hand. 

"Just in time for me to go to sleep," she replied, and the fatigue was  
in her voice, a sleepy gravel. 

"You think you can sleep?" He caressed her as the baby kicked again,  
rolling. 

"I think so," she murmured, settling down deeper into the pillows.  
"Hmm....thank you." 

She could hear the smile in his voice. "You're welcome," he said, and  
lay his head down behind hers, his arm still around her, stroking her  
dewed skin. 

She drifted, the baby shifting. She sensed her daughter's  
restlessness, a thin thread of feeling connecting them. She tried to  
send out the state of ease she felt there in the circle   
of Mulder's arms, the moon shining in the window still, but brighter  
now, turning everything soft and silver. 

Finally, she slept. 

 

**

5:54 a.m.

 

A fist clenching inside her. 

The feeling woke Scully, dragging her from sleep. Like a cramp bearing  
down on her, tightening her middle just above the baby and moving  
down, radiating around the globe of her middle, around her back, then  
toward her pelvis. 

She put her hand on her belly, drew in a sharp breath as she opened  
her eyes, taking in the gray morning light. 

The feeling persisted for a moment, then ebbed away. 

The baby had woken and moved, as though puzzled.

"Mulder," Scully said, rolling on her back and over to face him as he  
opened his eyes, his eyes catching the light, his hand going to her  
hair, smoothing. 

No fear in her voice as she told him to check his watch and start  
counting the time between the contractions, a small smile on her  
lips.

 

** 

 

10:03 a.m.

 

"Your turn, Doc," Granger said softly, tapping the deck on the table.

They were sitting at the kitchen table -- she, Mulder, Granger and  
Robin -- a wicked game of rummy going on for the past hour. A score  
sheet next to Mulder -- four long columns of numbers -- showed that  
Mulder was winning.

"Okay..." she said, but she was distracted, the new contraction  
winding itself inside her, coiling. She could feel her entire body  
growing taut with its impending wave. She reached up and wiped sweat  
from her forehead, her upper lip. 

"Scully?" Mulder said from beside her. His voice was quiet, but his  
face was looking a bit more furrowed, and the hand that came out to  
grip her forearm was tighter than usual. 

"It's okay..." she said, drew in a breath and reached for the card,  
though she already knew what it would be. She still had much to learn  
from Mr. Strawn. Much...

"You sure, Dana?" Robin asked from across from her, setting her cards  
down in front her. 

"Yes," Scully said quickly, picked up the card, looking at her hand.  
"It's fine. It'll pass in a minute." 

She'd been having them the whole time they'd been playing cards, the  
contractions growing stronger and closer together, though they were  
still about five minutes apart. She'd spoken to Hannah on the phone,  
and until her water broke or the contractions got more intense, Scully  
had told her she wanted to be at home. Hannah had agreed.

Like Hannah, Scully was a doctor. She would know when it was time for  
the hospital and time for Hannah to be involved at all. Hannah  
respected her enough to know that. 

"I don't know how you can be so calm," Robin said, and Scully  
discarded, a King of Spades. She knew that Robin, who was losing  
badly, needed the card. "Just sitting here watching you is making me  
nervous." 

"It's really okay," Scully said, forced a wan smile. "It's labor. It's  
going just as it's supposed to." 

And it was. Including the mounting pain.

"You want some more ice chips?" Mulder asked. He'd crushed a tray of  
ice for her at the counter, had them waiting in a bowl in the freezer  
to refill the glass she had at the table. He and Granger had cups of  
coffee in front of them, Robin, a Coke. 

"Sure," Scully said, but more to give Mulder something to do,  
somewhere to move. She wanted him to be relaxed again, as he'd been  
when they'd first woken. He had seemed so at ease, as she had then,  
but the pain was starting to show on her, and she could tell he was  
seeing it and, though he was prepared, it still made him concerned. 

He took his turn at the game, setting down four nines in a row as he  
stood and went for the counter with her glass. He wore a gray  
T-shirt, his most faded jeans, his Nikes. Bo, who'd been sleeping  
beneath the table, rose and fell in behind him. 

The two of them padded soundlessly across the room and Mulder poured  
the chips into the glass. He was on his way back to the table when it  
hit her. 

A crushing wave coursing through her body, worse than it had been yet.  
Her hand clenched around the cards and then she dropped them, going  
to her feet, her hand on the table for support. Granger was beside  
her instantly, Mulder reaching her, setting the glass down and  
getting his arms around her, steadying her. 

"Okay..." he murmured. "Okay, Scully..." 

"I--" She didn't know what she intended to say, her body seemed to  
contract in on itself, a jolt of pressure and pain. 

Then a sudden flood of liquid soaking her sweatpants, a dark stain  
down the inside of her thighs. 

"Robin?" Mulder said calmly as Scully's hands dug into his upper arms.  
Her eyes were closed, her brow creased as she concentrated on the  
pain, the contraction still moving through her. "Can you go get  
Scully's suitcase for me? It's upstairs by the bedroom door."   
His voice sounded very far away.

"Sure," Robin said, and Scully could hear her moving around the table  
and out to the hallway that led to the living room and the stairs. 

"I'm okay," Scully said again, puffing out a breath. "I just need  
to--" She tried to sit, but it seemed to make the pain worse. Mulder  
tightened his grip on her, and she swayed a bit unsteadily, Granger  
grabbing her arm. 

"Help me get her to the couch so I can call the doctor," Mulder said,  
and he and Granger started to guide her, the two men supporting most  
of her weight, though she forced herself to walk through the pain. 

They took her into the living room to the couch, lay her down on her  
side, her head on the throw pillow in the corner. She curled into a  
ball as the contraction pressed through her. The sunlight was in the  
room here, spread out on the couch like a warm blanket. She felt   
it touching her skin and concentrated on its warmth, on Mulder's hand  
on her sweaty hairline as he tapped on his cell phone, dialing  
Hannah's number. 

Robin returned with the suitcase, stood over her with Granger. 

She didn't listen to the conversation between Mulder and Hannah,  
concentrated instead on her breathing, on the feel of the light. 

"She's not concerned at all, but she does want you to go ahead and  
come in," Mulder said as he hung up the phone. 

Her breath caught, and Granger knelt down beside her leg, looking  
fretful. 

"It's all right," she said, though her breathing was coming a little  
fast. "Just a bad one. Things should...pick up from here. Start going  
faster." 

"We're going to head on out," Mulder said, his voice pitched calm,  
soft. He looked at Granger and Robin. "Thank you for coming over and  
staying with us."

Scully watched her friends nod. "We were happy to do it," Granger said  
gently, his hand on the outside of Scully's knee. "We'll take Bo, go  
back to our place. We'll call Frank so he can tell Mae. You call us  
when you're ready for visitors, okay?" 

Scully nodded, the contraction finally begin to fade, but it had left  
her panting, sweat on the neck of her T-shirt. She felt wet and  
sticky and hot. 

But not afraid. Things were progressing, going as they should. 

And she knew that the baby was all right. She sensed that same  
puzzlement she'd felt earlier. Some fear from the baby. But Rose was  
all right. It made her feel a strange contentment, this feeling that  
the three of them were doing this together. She did not feel   
alone with any of it. Mulder was here. Her baby was here. Her friends  
had been here, keeping her company through the morning. 

"We'll finish the card game...later..." Scully said faintly. 

"Why?" Mulder quipped. "You were just letting us win anyway." 

Granger and Robin chuckled, and Scully blushed, caught. 

"Good luck, Dana," Granger said softly. "All our hopes for an easy  
time." He took her hand and kissed the back of it, gave it a squeeze.  
Mulder moved out of the way to let Robin touch a kiss to Scully's  
cheek. 

"Be well," Robin murmured, and then the two of them were gone, out the  
front door into the morning light. 

She thought of her mother then, whom she talked to that morning. She  
was going to meet them at the hospital when she went. She would call  
her when she got there she decided. They still had a long wait ahead  
of them. 

Mulder looked at her, leaned over her on the couch. 

"Tell me what you need," he said, stroking her hair. "I'll get it for  
you." 

Her breathing was coming down toward normal now, but the sweat was  
still pouring off her. 

"I need a change of clothes," she said softly. "Then I just need *you*  
when we get there." She looked up at him, a small smile on her face.  
"You. With a story." 

He smiled back. "You got it," he said.

 

****

 

THE BERESFORD CENTER FOR WOMEN'S HEALTH  
NORTHERN VIRGINIA REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER  
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA  
12:16 p.m.

 

The room was large -- a double bed against one wall covered with a  
flowered comforter, a night table with a lamp, the room lined with  
cabinets. On the other side of the room, a large couch and a coffee  
table. There were rugs around the room to cover the linoleum,   
pictures on the walls of landscapes and flowers. 

Scully had chosen this room for the way the light came in through the  
windows by the couch, giving it a bright air. It had been one of  
three rooms with windows and this one had set her the most at ease  
for some reason she couldn't name. After she'd chosen it,   
Hannah had admitted to it being her own favorite of the birthing  
center's rooms. 

Hannah was gone, with a promise to return in an hour to check her  
again. Scully was almost ready, Hannah had said. 

"Not long now," were the words she left them with, touching Scully's  
bare leg as she completed her exam there on the couch. And then she'd  
added, her lined face bright. "You're doing wonderfully. Just hang  
on." 

The words had made Mulder feel better, since the pain had gotten so  
much worse, Scully beginning to moan as the contractions took her,  
her face going blood red, her brows knitting down. She had completely  
pulled his T-shirt from the waist of his pants as he'd   
held her, her upper body on his lap, the rest of her curved into a  
comma along the length of the couch beneath a white blanket. She was  
facing him, on her side, her face burrowing into the pillow on his  
lap, the pillow wet with sweat. Her hair was drenched with it at this  
point, her face shining in the light from the window. 

They'd stayed on the couch because she wanted to be in the light.

He had a book beside him, Alice Walker's "The Color Purple," the same  
book he'd been reading to her for weeks now, and he'd just reached  
the part where the children came back from Africa, greeting their  
mother in the field of purple flowers, when Hannah had   
returned to check her progress. 

Now, this close to the time when she would push their child into the  
world, he closed the book, lay it on the table beside the couch and  
took her hand in one of his, squeezed, the other going to smooth back  
her unruly, sweat-slicked hair around her flushed face. 

She had taken nothing for the pain, simply ridden it through, and he  
could tell the toll it was taking on her. Still, she looked so strong  
to him, a determined, concentrated look on her face as she breathed  
through the contractions. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look   
more like herself, how he saw her. Or more beautiful. 

"You're doing so well," he said softly, his chest feeling full. "So  
well. I'm so proud of you." 

Maggie had said something similar when she'd visited awhile ago,  
before Hannah had come in, her mother rubbing Scully's back for a  
long moment before she'd taken her leave of them for the rest of the  
time.

"I'll be waiting," Maggie had told them, her eyes on Mulder. 

He'd nodded, taken her outstretched hand, felt the squeeze. 

Then, with one final brush of Scully's hair, she'd gone.

Now, his words about being proud of her teased a smile from her,  
though her eyes were closed. 

Then she opened them, her hand reaching out to smooth down the T-shirt  
he wore where she'd wadded it with the last contraction. She  
swallowed, and she seemed deep in thought, her chest heaving, her  
breath fast. 

"What is it?" he asked. She seemed suddenly sad. 

"I was just thinking..." she said, her voice soft and breathy. "I was  
thinking...that this is the last day you and I will be together."

"You leaving me?" he teased, trying to bring some lightness to her  
somber tone. 

She smiled. "You know what I mean," she said softly. "The last day of  
just...the two of us. Things won't be like they've been before. Ever  
again." 

He nodded, stroking her hair. "No," he said. "I guess they won't."

He thought about it for a beat. Things had already changed so much --  
since she'd left the basement for her maternity leave, accepted the  
teaching assignment at Quantico. Since Granger had moved down to the  
basement himself to take her place. 

"Are you sorry at all?" she asked, and now he did see the tears in her  
eyes, catching in the sunlight across her face. 

He thought for another few seconds as she searched his face. "You  
asked me once before if I had any regrets," he said, thinking of the  
morning in Cape Charles all those months ago, when she'd placed his  
hand on her belly -- empty -- and asked him about regrets of a   
different kind -- the regrets of a life with only her. 

She seemed to need to think about it a moment, and then she nodded. "I  
remember," she whispered, stroked his stomach. She had begun to  
tremble faintly, as though she were cold. 

"You remember what you said to me after that?" he pressed, pulling the  
blanket up closer to her, though her shaking only increased. She  
shook her head. 

"Tell me," she asked, her voice breaking as tears came. 

"You said that you and I were like a person in a warm, safe bed who  
was dreaming," he murmured, reaching his arms around her and pulling  
her closer to him. "Do you remember now?"

A contraction was coming. He could feel it as her body began to tense.

"Yes, I remember," she whispered, the pain scratching her voice. 

"You said you wanted us to be able to keep dreaming. About anything.  
That you didn't want that to ever end for us." 

She nodded. "Yes." 

"Scully," he began, leaning over her and kissing her temple. His hand  
strayed to her belly, his hand cupping its curve in his palm. "This  
is a new dream we're dreaming...and it's a beautiful dream..."

She choked on a sob, turned her face toward him, her lips, trembling,  
on his cheek.

"I love you," she whispered, and the tremor was in her voice now. 

"I love you, too," he replied, and touched her lips with his, then  
rubbed his cheek against hers, holding there as the contraction began  
in earnest, her breath catching. 

"Oh God..." she gasped. "Mulder, I..."

"Breathe, Scully..." he murmured. "Just breathe..."

 

**

 

1:36 p.m.

 

"Come on, Dana, almost there..."

"You're doing great, Scully...I see her." 

She was on the couch still, squatting, her elbows on the back, the sun  
still coming in the windows. She'd been unable to lie down, the pain  
in her back throbbing. 

Mulder knelt beside her, a hand between her legs where Hannah had  
guided it. Hannah had reached for her hand, as well, the nurse  
steadying her, and placed her fingers next to Mulder's on the soft  
mass of the baby's head.

"She's got so much hair," he said, his voice quiet but delighted. 

"Another push, Dana," Hannah said, her voice firm but gentle. "Come  
on..."

Scully pulled in a breath, braced herself. She couldn't help the cry  
that crawled up her throat, her body burning as she bore down,  
trembling. She kept her hand on the baby's head. 

"It's too loud for her," she gasped. "Too bright...God, I don't want  
to hurt her..."

"It's okay, Scully," Mulder said softly. "She's okay. She's right  
here." 

Everyone spoke with a hushed urgency. Hannah pulled out a bulbous  
instrument and suctioned the baby's nose and mouth. 

"Just the shoulders, Dana," Hannah said softly. "One more push for the  
shoulders." 

Scully bore down again, fighting down the cry. Her legs shook with the  
effort. The burning was nearly more than she could take. 

"Mulder, keep your hand on the baby," Hannah said softly. "Help me  
guide her out...that's it..." 

The feeling of slipping, a rush of fluids onto the heavy sheets  
covering the couch, and the rest of the baby suddenly out. Scully  
looked down and saw the baby cradled against Mulder's arm, covered in  
blood and creamy white. Hannah was moving the cord away   
from the baby's face, the tiny features like a fist, the mouth shaking  
open and then, hands trembling on either side of Mulder's forearm...

A cry.

Tears burst from Scully's eyes as she looked at the baby, leaned  
against the back of the couch, sinking further down on her haunches,  
and reached for her. 

"Help me..." Scully said, her voice gone, and Hannah pushed up her  
gown around the still-round shape of her belly, Mulder leaning up and  
holding Rose in the crook of his arm, then gripping his daughter in  
his hands as he lay her, belly down, against Scully's abdomen. The  
baby was limp and wrinkled as Scully got her hands on her, pressing  
her close. 

The nurse, Jessie, moved in with a blanket and covered the baby to  
just below her matted dark hair. 

Then Mulder was there beside her, kissing her face, her hairline.  
Scully couldn't take her eyes off the baby, the small face turned to  
the side, the baby still crying. 

"It's her..." Scully kept saying in her ruined voice, choking.  
"Rose..."

The face she had seen in her mind for all these months. The dark hair,  
the color of Mulder's. The button of a nose. The long, tiny body in  
her arms. The full lips. 

If Hannah was confused at all but the comment, she gave no indication.  
She simply stayed kneeling on the floor, her hand on the baby's back  
to hold her against Scully's body, her fingers around the cord,  
waiting for the pulsing to cease. 

Mulder kissed Scully again and she turned toward his face, her hand  
coming up to touch his rough cheek, one hand on him and the other on  
their daughter, who was quieting now, the crying spent, the baby  
puzzling again, her small hands gripping at Scully's skin. 

Time seemed to drift, then to hold still, and Scully let herself go,  
her eyes closed and her body growing limp, Mulder's tears on her  
face, his lips on her ear as he whispered to her. 

Something about her. Something about dreaming. Something about love.

She was like a boat, tossed on a storm-swept sea, that had finally  
made its way to shore.

Finally.

Finally made it home. 

 

******

 

END OF NOVEL AND SERIES.

 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 

I'd like to thank the following people for their help with  
information or with support during the writing of this novel:

\- To Jen, Arwen, Robin and Dani for the information on childbirth.  
\- To dtg and Shari for help with formatting and posting the chapters,  
and dtg specifically for maintaining and updating the website and The  
Cave, and for her incredible support of and enthusiasm about my  
work. - To Jean Robinson for keeping up her enthusiasm for the story,  
even during its hiatus. - To Nancy, Robin and Nancy (Beach...), for  
their chapter-by-chapter detailed feedback and kind emails.  
\- To E-muse, for its fabulous sense of community and its support.  
\- To QofMush, Revely, Shari, Barbara D., Haphazard Method, Marakara,  
Sarah Segretti, Jean Robinson, JET, MCA, Anjou, Snacky, Sheaclaire,  
Laney, Jill Selby, Michaela, MD1016, Blueswirl, Lilydale, Emma  
Brightman, Meredith, Snark, Nlynn, Sue Pyper, and Elizabeth Rowandale  
for being my family and my friends. - To Nlynn, for the wonderful  
book jacket. - To linc, Ana_Sedai, Jessie, siggy, Beckyc, lucie, the  
old Stalker's Nest folks and the rest of the supporters at the Haven.  
\- To the Lost & Found Board (and Kim, its moderator), for being such a  
positive and supportive place to visit on the web.  
\- To the Enigmatic Dr. for archiving my work.  
\- To the Cryptkeeper for support of the shorter works.  
\- To the readers who were patient enough to wait while the story went  
in and out of hiatus as my life got really full and really big and  
really wonderful along the way. I promised I'd finish it I just  
didn't specify the year. ;-) 

And of course, to Dani, Shari, Revely and Sheri, who all beta'd  
sections of this book, but especially to Dani and Shari, who managed  
over the span of five years to beta every chapter of every book.  
If you've enjoyed this ride, you have them to thank for it.

This book is dedicated to B. Thanks for sharing my life.

I can't promise to answer all feedback (which is why I've given an  
"out" for sending it in m headers it seems rude to ask for it if  
I'm not sure I can send some back), but if you would like to reach  
me, you can do so at Bonetree@gmail.com. 

So long and thanks for all the fish. ;-)

 

Bone   
September 2004


End file.
